Lockdown
by Burning Stars
Summary: "To remind the districts that, in their foolhardy bloodlust, they couldn't anticipate the pain and loss the First Rebellion would bring them, there will be no public reapings. The selected tributes shall be individually taken from their homes and families over the following twenty-four hours." Welcome to the Fourth Quarter Quell. *In the arena*
1. The Announcement

**I do not own the Hunger Games.**

* * *

**Library of Panem Legislative Records - Audio File [Transcript]: Mayoral Committee, Motion 254: The Discontinuation of the Hunger Games - November 29th, Year 99**

* * *

In attendance:

District Zero: Thaddeus Hyperion, Vice-President; Hephaestia Dorn, Mayor

District One: Spinel Creighton, Mayor

District Two: Xander Tourney, Mayor

District Three: Lucille Joule, Mayor

District Four: Byron Finlay, Mayor

District Five: Li Rainer, Mayor Elect

District Six: Malachi O'Neil, Mayor

District Seven: Uriah Hackett, Mayor

District Eight: Oriana Taite, Mayor

District Nine: Anders Macaulay, Mayor

District Ten: Michael Yu, Mayor

District Eleven: Layla Forsyth, Mayor

District Twelve: Kimber Ferron, Mayor

District Thirteen: Alma Coin, President; Yvonne Vectus, Mayor

Conversation begins at 1:01PM

Coin [13]: You all know why you're here, I presume. [Pause - indistinct mumbling] In any case, we will reiterate. You have been summoned to vote on Motion 254, which concerns the discontinuation of the Hunger Games. [Pause - indistinct shouting] Yes, we know the Games are a pillar of Panemian society, but times are changing. In fact, the times have already changed, and if we don't change with them, our nation will perish. The purpose of the Games has strayed from the founders' intent. It's become an unnecessary source of resentment - very dangerous, very volatile resentment - among the citizens, especially the poor and working class. For others, it's become a beacon of hope - false hope, but hope nonetheless. As we all know, the Games should inspire neither resentment nor hope. Rather, they should inspire fear, which in turn demands obedience. So, we believe that the funds normally allocated to the Games should instead go to feeding the destitute and strengthening peacekeeper forces. This will debase any unrest before it has the chance to metastasize.

Hyperion [0]: Ever since District Zero was required to start sacrificing tributes, the Games' entertainment value has plummeted. Once their own children are put in the ring, the fun ends. Personally, I think the Games have run their course, both in terms of politics and popular culture. At this point, they hurt more than they help. It would be unwise to continue them.

Dorn [0]: In fact, many citizens of District Zero never liked the Games, even before the Third Quarter Quell. The people who genuinely enjoyed the Games purely as entertainment were often seen as sadistic, or plain stupid. The idea that Capitolites enjoyed the Hunger Games was just propaganda that the old regime tried to push. Unsuccessfully, I might add. The betting, gambling, and sponsorship were the main attractions, at least for mainstream society. Just thought you'd like to know.

Hyperion [0]: Agreed. Now, as for the rest of you: please discuss.

[Pause]

Ferron [12]: Well, I think it's a great idea.

O'Neil [6]: Seconded.

Rainer [5]: Third..ed?

Tourney [2]: Hold the damn phone. Do you have any idea what sort of economic benefits the Games afford us? The influx of money and food from each victory is immeasurably helpful to my people.

Ferron [12]: Do _you_ have any idea how much those Games cost? You could just take the money that usually goes to building the arena and paying all of the little worker bees, and instead of using it to kill kids, just split it up amongst the districts according to population. That way, even districts _without_ academies could feed their citizens.

Tourney [2]: Or maybe you should encourage your children to actually win once in a while.

Macaulay [9]: Of course you would say that! Over the last ninety-nine years, you and the other Career districts have only become more and more powerful. The more you win, the richer you get, and the richer you get, the more you fund your academies, and while you're off doing that, we still have nothing. In fact, since our children don't have the head start that yours do, we have less than nothing. Don't you see the inherent unfairness of that system?

Tourney [2]: Life isn't fair.

Ferron [12]: What are you, eight years old? Life can't be summarized into some trite little phrase.

Tourney [2]: And what about the volunteers-in-waiting? They will have wasted their lives and money on a dream that will be snatched from them before they get the chance to fulfill it!

Hyperion [0]: Their tuition will be refunded in full, of course. As for their dreams of victory, there are many available avenues to success, more and more all the time.

Finlay [4]: If I may? [Pause] As a recognized Career district, I've seen firsthand the benefits that victors bring to the district. Food, money, attention, tourists, and the list goes on. But I've also seen, firsthand, the negative side of those victories. PTSD, alcoholism, suicidal episodes, broken families, broken minds. Not to mention the horrors endured by those who lose. I am very well-acquainted with the consequences of failure, and I wouldn't wish that pain on my worst enemy.

Tourney [2]: But can you say, with absolute certainty, that purging the bad is worth losing the good?

Finlay [4]: I lost my daughter to those wretched Games! How dare you tell me what's worth losing and what isn't?!

[Pause]

O'Neil [6]: We've all lost people to the Game, or at the very least seen the effect on the families and friends of the fallen tributes. As appointed leaders, we have been entrusted with the safety and well-being of our people. I cannot, in good conscience, deny the opportunity to bring this suffering to an end.

Ferron [12]: Of course, you are free to establish the Hunger Games in your district, Tourney. Then again, you might not have any residents left by the time next year rolls around.

Hyperion [0]: That's enough.

[Pause]

Hackett [7]: So we just stop the Hunger Games altogether? End it at Ninety-Nine?

Coin [13]: No. The Fourth Quarter Quell will be the last Game. We can't allow the populace to believe that we're doing this to sate them. They must believe that we're only doing this on a whim, as a show of our plentiful and largely unwarranted benevolence.

Joule [3] [aside, presumably to Taite]: Your thoughts?

Taite [8] [aside, presumably to Joule]: I think our children will look back on the century of the Games and wonder what the hell was wrong with us. That's my hope, at least.

Joule [3] [aside, presumably to Taite]: We are in agreement, then.

Tourney [2]: This is outrageous. How can you so easily throw away what is, arguably, Panem's most unifying tradition?

Macaulay [9]: What does it say about us that, as a nation, one of our greatest 'traditions' involves throwing our own children to the wolves?

Creighton [1]: He's right, Tourney. Fortune and glory are well and good, but this is one tradition that I'd gladly cut away. In this case, our culture is holding us back. We can be better. We can move on.

Forsyth [11]: We really can. The future starts now. I want something better for my family, for my district. For Panem.

[Pause]

Coin [13]: Does anyone else have something to say? [Pause] No? Then it's time to vote. Mayors of Panem, on the issue of Motion 254: The Discontinuation of the Hunger Games, what say you?

Dorn, Creighton, Joule, Finlay, Rainer, O'Neil, Hackett, Taite, Macaulay, Yu, Forsyth, Ferron, Vectus: Aye.

Coin [13]: Tourney?

[Pause]

Tourney [2]: I don't suppose you'll execute me for voting against you?

Coin [13]: Of course not. As you know, our power is no longer in question, thus we have moved beyond the need for such barbaric measures. Much like the implementation of the Hunger Games, only an insecure government requires violent and oppressive tactics to enforce their authority. You are free to express your true opinion.

Tourney [2]: Then I vote 'no'.

Hyperion [0]: Your token vote of dissent is duly noted.

Coin [13]: With a vote of 13 to 1, Motion 254 will proceed to the Higher Court, whereupon the Arch Judges shall incorporate it into the Coin-Hyperion agreement. Until then, plans for the Fourth Quarter Quell must be finalized. The meeting to decide the parameters for the last Game is currently set for December 3rd, though that date is subject to change. You will be promptly informed of any changes to the schedule. Thank you for your time. Meeting adjourned.

* * *

**Library of Panem Public Records - Audio File Excerpt [Transcript]: President Coin's Fourth Quarter Quell Address - May 12th, Year 100**

* * *

Speech begins at 12:00PM

Coin: Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the One Hundredth Hunger Games. According to the Game charter, a Quarter Quell must be implemented every twenty-five years to remind each new generation of the districts' failed uprisings, and the needless suffering of the Dark Days. However, as Panem continues to reunify, it has become more and more apparent that the Hunger Games are largely needless, as well.

At the time of their implementation, they were justified and their purpose was clearly defined. But in the interim years, they have strayed from the founders' intent. What was meant to inspire fear now inspires young men and women to seek glory in the murder of others. What was meant to serve as a reminder to the thoughtless and unruly now only serves to remind us of our animosity toward one another. The Games have become a burden. An expensive, deadly burden than we can no longer justify. Your mayors have decided that this Game, Panem willing, shall be the last reminder we need.

This year marks the Fourth, and hopefully final, Quarter Quell. [Pause] As written by our ancestors, "To remind the districts that, in their foolhardy bloodlust, they couldn't anticipate the pain and loss the First Rebellion would bring them, there will be no public reapings. The selected tributes shall be individually taken from their homes and families over the following twenty-four hours and brought directly to District Zero. Panem shall not learn the tributes' identities until the Game begins." So spake the Old Capitol.

Good luck, Panem. May the odds be ever in your favor.

* * *

**Hello, and welcome to Lockdown. **

**Each tribute will get 2 POVs between now and the start of the game. There will be no reapings, no goodbyes, no chariot rides, and no interviews. Pre-reapings (or pre-abductions, rather), train rides, training days, and the launch chapter will go as planned, though. I just wanted to get rid of the monotonous and generally pointless stuff.**

**If you aren't familiar with my 'verse, I've completed two other SYOTs and created a mentor's blog. The details are on my profile, but here's the run-down: **

**There was an attempt at a Second Rebellion, but it failed early-on. Katniss and Finnick are still alive (because I'm a sap and I like them), though a lot of other victors (listed on my profile) were executed after the Third Quarter Quell. District Thirteen has rejoined Panem, and the Capitol has been reduced to district status and been given the title of "District Zero". Victors are no longer prostituted. Panem as a whole has become a bit more lax and a lot more prosperous in the twenty-five years since the Second Rebellion. There is still a lot of poverty, but absolute destitution isn't nearly so common as it was before. **

**Some important details about my stories that you might want to take into consideration if you're interested in making a tribute:**

** Citizens of Panem are allowed to move between districts. There are fourteen districts in all, Zero through Thirteen. Due to the Quell Twist, there are no volunteers (though people from Career districts can have some training). Districts One, Two, and Four are legal Career districts. District Seven was a Career district, but they lost that privilege. **

***Things that you should definitely take into consideration:**

**The tribute form is on my profile. *DO NOT SUBMIT TRIBUTES THROUGH REVIEW. PLEASE ONLY SUBMIT THEM THROUGH PM.* The deadline is midnight, January 17th, PST, and I won't officially accept any tributes until then. I'll push back the deadline if I don't receive enough tributes within that time frame. This is not first come, first serve, and though you may send as many tributes as your heart desires, I will only accept one per person. And lastly, ****"misunderstood" is not a valid weakness.  
**

**So, if you're interested, please submit a tribute or two, and maybe drop a review on this prologue if you feel so inclined.  
**

**Anyways, thanks for reading, and I'll see you sometime in the next few weeks!**


	2. Prior

**I do not own the Hunger Games.**

* * *

**Aphelion Andros, District Zero - Head Gamemaker**

* * *

"How are the cells looking?"

Leopold pointed to the screen overhead. "Ninety-three percent have been completed."

"Good." Aphelion checked her tablet. "Mutts?"

A young man, fairly new to the job but confident nonetheless, piped up from the control panel. "Batches one through ten have been primed and are on standby. Batches eleven through fourteen are awaiting their completion codes, but are otherwise fully gestated."

Aphelion paused and drew a sharp breath. Since they existed solely for this arena, it was pointless to keep the last batches of muttations waiting. "Update the completion codes."

"Yes, ma'am."

Strained whispers rose from a cluster of women near the back of the room. Magenta nails hid sneering mouths, and three pairs of heavily decorated eyes fixed on her.

"Ladies," she said, stopping in front of them. "Do you have something to contribute?"

Two of the women looked away, and their hands dropped. But the third, an outspoken troublemaker who rarely knew when to keep her mouth shut, held her head up and glared at Aphelion with snobbish, petty disdain. "You and the president have taken the fun out of the Games."

"Oh? Please, enlighten me."

Even as her companions urged her to quiet down, the impudent woman continued. "The reapings? The Chariot Rides? The interviews? You can't just get rid of all that."

Aphelion offered the woman a contrived smile. "Need I remind you that I am not in charge of the Quarter Quell twist?" She stepped closer, and dropped the mocking façade. "Death is no pastime. You, in you supreme lack of empathy, fail to realize that, for these tributes, it is the end. That warrants respect." She brought up an electronic diagram of the arena and drummed her nails on the crystalline display surface. "This Game, if executed properly, will be the last. It is our responsibility to demonstrate the consequences of rebellion, but even more importantly, to emphasize the value of human life, something our predecessors didn't seem to understand." Lifting her gaze to meet that of the dissenter, she added, "Gilding a death match and labeling it fanfare will not accomplish either of those goals."

Her assistants averted their eyes, embarrassed. In time, they would learn.

Aphelion had no love for her job. Detested it, even. But it gave her the opportunity to improve the nation that she so dearly loved. In order to stop the atrocity once and for all, she had to end it properly. She did not want the weight of twenty-seven deaths and innumerable ruined lives resting upon her shoulders, but if she managed to leave the correct lasting impression, she could save countless others. She could bring the suffering to a halt. That's what made it worthwhile.

Even if she had to sacrifice her soul.

* * *

**Oren Bradshaw, District Thirteen - Victor of the Ninety-Ninth Hunger Games**

* * *

Oren Bradshaw did not like his father. In fact, it took a great measure of effort to even tolerate the man. But he did love him. Between them, things were as they had been before his victory. They had barely spoken then, and they barely spoke now, but Oren preferred it that way. His father had accepted what his son had done and moved on, just like Azura. Everyone else had taken significantly longer, or, in a few cases, not forgiven him at all. But he understood, even if he didn't like it.

He'd killed his district partner out of necessity. Most people saw that. They had been the only two left, and he'd wanted to go home more than she did. Whether or not he still felt that way varied from day to day. For the most part, he was just okay.

"You leaving for Zero today?" his father asked, eyes fixed on the faint sunrise.

"When the second tribute is taken, yeah."

"Last game?"

With some unintentional warmth, Oren answered, "Last game."

This was the last time anyone would be dragged into the hell that he and the other victors endured. It was awful, and it was finally coming to an end. The bitter part of him resented the fact that, if his bad luck had simply waited two years, he wouldn't be a murderer. But it hadn't. He knew that he was fortunate to be alive, though whether or not that made up for getting reaped, he didn't know.

His father nodded, picking up on Oren's relief. "Don't fuck up."

"Wasn't planning on it."

"Most fuck-ups are unplanned."

Adrian Bradshaw was not only an unsmiling bastard, but a merciless contrarian, as well. Oren suspected that his father took secret pride in this, though it was nearly impossible to verify that claim.

With an exaggerated sigh, Oren sat up and yawned. As the tendons in his neck went taut, a spasm of pain jolted his mouth shut, and his hand went to the smiling scar that ran across his throat. The injury hadn't healed properly, and it still bothered him from time to time. The Career's attempted death blow missed the important stuff, though, so Oren supposed he was grateful for that questionable bit of luck, too.

"You gonna see your mum before you go?" his father asked.

"Yeah."

"Say 'hi' for me."

Oren bobbed his head. "Will do." Taking the porch stairs two by two, he added, "See you when I get back."

By now, a few of the tributes across Panem had probably already been taken. He and Azura couldn't leave until both the male and the female had been collected from their district, and as of yet he'd received no summons to the train, so he figured that at least one of their future tributes was still out and about.

Oren pitied them.

* * *

**Venera Toulley, District Two - Victor of the Eighty-First Hunger Games**

* * *

The ocean was a strange shade of gray. A storm had arrived the night before, bringing with it a sizable swell that stirred up all manner of particulates from the seafloor, clouding the water and sending huge waves crashing against the rocky shoreline. After raging all night, the weather was finally starting to subside.

"This isn't up for debate."

"Really? Because I'm debating. Watch me." Darius leaned forward opened his mouth to demonstrate, but Venera planted her hand on his face and pushed him back.

"You're wasting your breath," she said. "I shan't be convinced."

He rolled his eyes and pried her hand away, setting it gently on the table with a gentle, if not slightly facetious pat. "Reality will not change solely for you, _honey._ And the reality is that one of us needs to stay behind."

"Natalie is fifteen, and very capable of taking care of both Kai and herself. I think they can manage for a few days."

"Too many things can go wrong. If it was just Natalie, then maybe I'd consider it. But Kai? Even you wouldn't want to be stuck alone with him."

Venera narrowed her eyes, irritated by the corner he'd backed her into. Their daughter was a fine, capable young woman. Their nine-year-old son, on the other hand, wasn't necessarily an idiot, but he seemed to lack a few of the finer points of common sense and decency that graced the rest of humanity. Add in some anti-authoritarian tendencies and a knack for trouble, and the house very well could be gone when they came home.

Of course, the safety of their house paled in comparison to the possibility of their daughter being taken, but they couldn't do much about that. Fretting over it was pointless.

With an empty sigh, Venera rested her hand on her fist. "I just want one more chance."

It was an attempt to look pathetic, though she only had to exaggerate a bit. If one of them had to stay, she wanted it to be him.

Her only successful mentorship thus far had produced one very troubled, low-functioning sociopath. In all honesty, she would have rather seen his district partner win, but the poor girl died in the bloodbath, leaving Venera with the boy who killed defenseless animals to alleviate boredom. Rumor had it that the kid murdered his own brother, but neither she nor any of the other mentors had been able to get solid confirmation. All evidence pointed to an accident, but she wouldn't be surprised if Vitus did it. He was the kind of person who smiled when he killed.

"I get it, Nera." Darius laced his fingers together, mostly serious. "Vitus wasn't my top pick either, but you still brought someone home. That has to count for something."

"Easy for you to say. Reid is a sweetheart."

Darius paused, then conceded a small nod. "This is true."

After nineteen mentorships, Darius had kept one tribute alive, and the girl was absolutely wonderful. A bit strange, but wonderful nonetheless. In fact, she was so kind and gentle that some of the other Careers in her game decided that she would be an easy target. They were wrong, and all three paid the ultimate price for their miscalculation. Reid felt bad about it, sure, but just because she was gentle didn't mean she was soft.

"Tell you what," Darius said, eyes lighting up. "I'll ask my sister if she can watch the kids. And if she can't, I'll stay."

Venera considered this. The childless spinster did love her niece and nephew, and would make accommodations for them if at all possible. She was reliable, too, and one of the few people that Kai actually listened to. If anyone could keep their children in line for an extended period of time, it was Darius's sister.

"Deal," Venera said. "I'd rather we went together, anyways."

* * *

**Marguerite DuPont, District Zero - Victor of the Eighty-Eighth Hunger Games**

* * *

White walls, white noise, white hair, white sheets. Everything lovely, everything clean, with a woman in bed and death in the eaves.

Marguerite hated this room.

She sat on the edge of the cot, holding her grandmother's blue-veined hand. There was a bandage wrapped around her wrist, meant to hide the spot where her skin, paper-thin with age, had split open against the edge of a table. That injury was almost two months old now, and it had yet to heal. Given her grandmother's failing health, it probably wouldn't get the chance.

"Gran," she murmured, leaning over the fading woman and pushing a strand of hair away from her waxy, pallid cheek. "Gran, I have to go."

Some days, though they were growing fewer and further between, her grandmother was lucid enough to hold a conversation, though they rarely lasted more than a minute before she forgot why she was talking in the first place, or worse yet, forgot who Marguerite was. As bad as that was, it hurt less than seeing her not speak at all. Unfortunately, today was a no-speak day.

"I'll be back in two or three weeks," she said, though she didn't know if her grandmother had that long. She was slipping more and more everyday, and one day there wouldn't be anything left to lose. Even now, not much remained.

Her grandmother, once strong and passionate and beautiful, had faded to a wisp of bland, semiconscious thought. She remembered nothing in the long-term. She had no opinions. She was a bundle of bones and flesh with a few fleeting thoughts, clutching to a dying light that, someday very soon, would fizzle and die, dragging the hapless woman with it. What was left of her, at least.

Marguerite's parents had never had much of a presence in her life. Alcohol, morphling, and an infallible ability to hook up with the most abusive man in any given locality removed her mother from the frame early on, and her father wasn't much in the way of affection. He provided for her, and he did his best with what he had. But her grandmother was the one who loved her in the way every child should be loved. Without her grandmother's shining example, without the years of imparted wisdom, twelve years ago Marguerite would have arrived home in a simple pine box.

Now, the woman who raised her, the woman who gave her the strength to survive, was in a state of utter helplessness, and perhaps on the verge of death. Maybe she wouldn't go today, maybe not tomorrow, but a lot could happen during the Game.

Perhaps the old woman would die, and perhaps Marguerite, drafted as a mentor for what she hoped was the last time, wouldn't get the chance to say a final goodbye.

The Game had already taken so much from her. She didn't think she could bear another theft.

"I love you," she said, and planted a kiss on the woman's forehead. No response. "Stay here until I come back." Her voice cracked on the last syllable. "Please, Gran. I won't be long."

* * *

**I figured I'd give a little insight into the mentors' lives, as well as a bit of exposition on the Head Gamemaker. **

**As for submissions, I've gotten a number of great tributes so far, and though I won't tell you where to submit, I'd advise staying away from D0. All of the other districts are pretty much fair game.**


	3. Drumroll, Please

**I do not own the Hunger Games.  
**

* * *

**Thermo Austale, Victor of the 66****th**** Hunger Games**

* * *

Through his kitchen window, Thermo watched with a humorless smile as Flouric Weber paced up and down the street. District Three's most recent victor liked a great many things, but watching children die was not one of them. Worse yet, his sister was due in the next few days, and instead of being there to greet the new child, the man would be in District Zero, trying to keep someone else's child alive. The Games had a remarkable tendency to disrupt family life.

Thermo had a family once. Well, just a mother, but she was enough. Everything a mother was supposed to be: kind, loving, hardworking, empathetic. She sacrificed her time, her energy, her everything to ensure that he could stay in school and have a better life than she ever did. He spent the majority of his childhood just trying to be a son worthy of such a woman.

When he won his Game, he thought he could finally provide for her in the way she'd always provided for him. At last, he could be the man of the house, a better version of the one who walked out only a few months after his birth. If his mother couldn't have a proper husband, at the very least, he could be a proper son.

But he'd killed people. The arena had been a nightmare, and it rubbed off on him. Turned him into something he didn't want to be.

His mother had watched him fight. She'd watched him crumble. She'd watched him change.

And they both knew that he could never be a proper son. Anything and everything he offered, no matter how lovely or useful or prudent, always reeked of blood, desperation, and the children he'd killed.

She'd gone to her grave knowing that her son was a murderer.

Thermo opened his front door, and called to Flouric. "You're going to wear a track in the road."

Flouric responded with an unkind gesture, and Thermo tried to smile.

He missed his mother dearly.

* * *

**Aphelion Andros, Head Gamemaker**

* * *

Her assistant stared at the diagram, resting his chin on his fist. "I think everything's taken care of." He looked to Aphelion. "Did we miss anything?"

Aphelion shook her head. "Nearly all is in place."

He pointed at a flashing corner of the hologram. "What about solitary confinement?"

"It's being stocked." She referred to her tablet, and raised her eyebrows with a sigh. "Should be ready in two hours."

The poor kid was gnawing on a hangnail, more nervous than Aphelion had ever seen him, and she couldn't help but wonder why. It wasn't as if _his_ reputation was on the line.

"What's on your mind?" she asked.

The young man looked up, startled, and his hand flashed to his side. "I, uh. Nothing, ma'am." After a moment's consideration, he relented. "Actually, it's… it's my sister. She lives in District One and we've never had to worry about her, but she's seventeen, and with the quell twist, this time…" He sighed. "I just don't want my sister to get killed by something I helped create."

Aphelion pursed her lips. "But if your creation kills the sister of a stranger, it's okay?"

"What? N-no, not at all, I just-"

"It's a tragedy regardless of relation. We're guilty all the same." A little wistfully, she added, "No matter how hard we try, we can't escape our base nature. But we can fight it. We _should_ fight it." She smiled at the screen. "This prison of war."

* * *

**District Zero**

Male: Enoch Emeris, 18

Female: Charne Valle, 18

**District One**

Male: Florian Casimir, 17

Female: Danique Vittori, 17

**District Two**

Male: Tullus Marl, 18

Female: Medea Torrell, 15

**District Three**

Male: Emery Sobel, 14

Female: Polly Brady, 18

**District Four**

Male: Owen Blackwood, 17

Female: Dabria Lane, 18

**District Five**

Male: Damian Ridge, 18

Female: Maelyn LeBrenton, 16

**District Six**

Male: Tristan Vorassi, 18

Female: Ryder Corinthus, 17

**District Seven**

Male: Darian Kesslar, 16

Female: Magery Kappel, 18

**District Eight**

Male: Denim Luxley, 17

Female: Evelyn Arellis, 15

**District Nine**

Male: Samson Galloway, 16

Female: Nynette Saghas, 14

**District Ten**

Male: Benjamin Stavros, 18

Female: Aviana Recine, 16

**District Eleven**

Male: Armand Castillo, 12

Female: Sinora Midori, 16

**District Twelve**

Male: Ace Wilder, 15

Female: Adara Tassin, 18

**District Thirteen**

Male: Niko Sundita, 16

Female: Brand Coil, 17

* * *

**Some more background, yay. And now you know that the arena is one big metaphor for the human condition. It's almost like we're back in English class!**

**Oooookay. I received almost sixty submissions, so I had to reject about thirty tributes. I appreciate the effort that went into each submission, and if any of yours aren't on the list, I'm sorry. Some details might be different than you expected, so check every district. I had to put a few tributes into different districts than the ones listed on their form, and the overwhelming majority were older kids, so I had to push down a lot of tributes by one (or in one case, two) year(s). But rest assured that this won't affect their performance in the game. I just wanted to make the spread of ages slightly more realistic.**

**Let me know what you think of the tributes! I love full blog reviews, but I understand that's fairly time-consuming, so I'd alternately appreciate a mention of your favorites/least favorites, or even just the ones who stood out.**

**Anywho, the blog is posted, and it's 3:15 in the morning right now, so I should probably wrap it up. Thanks for reading, thanks for submitting tributes, and I hope to see you next time.**


	4. Abductions

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Denim Luxley, District Eight Male**

* * *

When observed over any extended period of time, Denim Luxley appeared to be sliding down the razor blade of life with all the vigor of week-old road kill. And in truth, he was, though he hardly cared enough to notice, and he certainly didn't care enough to do anything about it.

The world, as a whole, either pissed him off or bored him out of his mind. In fact, his three known interests were based purely upon what few things he could tolerate: his family, making trouble, and music.

On the afternoon of the Quarter Quell announcement, Denim found himself gazing listlessly up at his ceiling whilst treating his neighbors to some duet by two washed-up rock stars, though at the time of the recording they were both still firmly in their prime. He'd received a number of noise complaints over the years from the boring old people who lived on the floors above and below, but he'd ignored them, and eventually they gave up. Peacekeepers didn't have much time for teenagers who didn't steal, murder, maim, or incite rebellion.

Of course, that wasn't to say that Denim never got in trouble. He didn't intended to break the law, but he'd ignored some peacekeeper orders that he probably should have obeyed and got into a fight with one a few years ago. They'd had it out for him ever since, and he did his best to avoid them.

He rolled over onto his side. Maybe they didn't have it out for him specifically, but it certainly felt like it from time to time.

Across the apartment, he heard the front door slam open, and amidst the shouts of men and women, he heard his younger sister cry out in panic. He sat bolt upright. Whoever it was, they'd better not hurt her.

One of the strangers screamed his name, demanding to know where he was, but in response his sister simply screamed, "Run, Denim!"

Tromping boots hurried through the main entryway and down the hallway.

He rested his back against the wall, debating the likelihood of escape. No matter where he went in Panem, they'd eventually find him. Maybe he could hide out for so long that they had to find another tribute to take his place?

Even as the thought formed, he knew it was just a false hope. If he did somehow manage to miraculously evade them, he'd probably have a firing squad waiting for him once they rediscovered him. Denim Luxley, a lone teenage boy, versus the nation of Panem? Didn't look too good for him.

Still, no point in just giving in.

Before the peacekeepers reached his door, he had flung the window open, leapt across the narrow alleyway, and landed on the adjacent balcony. He swung around to the metal ladder and slid down, hissing as the friction built up and seared his hands. He hit the ground hard and took off down the dark alleyway, sifting his brain for a potential escape route, trying to piece every relevant bit of information he remembered into an actual plan. The street ahead let out at a local park, and just beyond the park was a run-down textile mill that hadn't been active since before he was born. The doors were locked, but one of the windows was completely blown-out. It was a long-shot, but better than nothing.

As he took off toward the main street, the concrete at his feet erupted in tiny bursts of superheated dust, and bullets ricocheted off of the brick walls. They were shooting at him! Apparently he wasn't so important if they were willing to potentially kill him.

From the window above, a peacekeeper shouted, "Citizen! Remain where you are!"

Like that was gonna happen.

He turned the corner and sped down the street, arms pumping and legs burning. He hadn't run this hard in a while.

A black van came hurtling through the intersection a few hundred feet ahead, clipping a produce stand and sending bits of fruit skittering across the street. Denim tried to course-correct, but they anticipated it. The back doors flew open, and four more peacekeepers hopped out of the vehicle, two for each end of the van, and all of them pointed their guns at his head and chest.

He slowed to a trot, then came to a halt and leaned his hands on his knees, panting.

"Denim Luxley," the tallest one said, "you have been reaped. Do not resist."

Denim straightened with a sigh. At least he'd tried.

* * *

**Damian Ridge, District Five**

* * *

Damian knocked on the door again. "Mom?" No response. "Mom, we need to talk."

A long pause followed, but still she said nothing.

He rested his head against the door and closed his eyes, wishing that she would make even the smallest effort to understand. "I'm not going to change my mind just because you won't talk to me."

A string of curses erupted from inside the room, followed by tromping footsteps, her voice growing louder, and he jerked backward as the door flew open. Before him stood a tiny woman in her late forties, face streaked with mascara and nails bitten down to the quick. Judging by the color of her face, he could've probably cooked an egg on her forehead if he were so inclined.

For a moment, he briefly reconsidered his situation. Perhaps he should stay. Both parents expected him to take control of the family business, that sprawling and nebulous beast that had financed their big, expensive house and their nice, shiny things, though it had also driven his father to an early grave less than one month prior. Stress-induced heart-attack, the doctors said. Too much work, not enough play. Wrapped up in the cutthroat hustle and bustle of District Five, the Ridge family knew all too well that money, for all its varied uses, could not buy happiness. Or, even more importantly: contentment.

The pursuit of more power, more money, more everything - it had killed his father. Warped his mother. It wasn't the kind of life Damian wanted, wasn't the kind of person he was. He wanted quiet. He wanted peace. He wanted the right to use his life as he saw fit, and whether he met success or fell into the deadbeat rhythm of mediocrity was his own business.

"How dare you!" his mother shrieked. "Your father's dying wish, just to see his legacy continued! And you, you, you-" She paused, choking on the words before she could sort them out. "You ingrate!"

"It's not my responsibility to continue a dead man's work," Damian said, knowing how awful the words were before they left his mouth. "I'm not the person dad was. Living his life will just make me miserable."

"You think he wasn't miserable? You think he didn't sacrifice for us? For you? Look around you, Damian! You think the world just gave us these things? No! We had to fight for every inch of what we have!"

"And yet you want more. You and dad. Nothing was ever enough."

"That isn't the point!"

"No," Damian cut in, "that's exactly the point." He drew a sullen sigh. He had forgotten himself. "I didn't come here to yell at you. I just… I don't want it to be like this. I don't want to leave things this way."

His mother's lower lip quivered, but she showed no sign of yielding. "Then maybe you should stay."

She slammed the door, leaving Damian alone in the hallway. Anger flared up, but he forced it down. No use in letting his emotions get the better of him.

He left her alone and walked to his own room, where a neatly packed suitcase sat on the edge of his bed. He thought of all the places he could go. District Ten seemed like the best bet since it was more rural than suburban, and from what he heard, the people were nice. They'd done well in the past few decades, so not much poverty, either. Of course, Four had always held a certain appeal, too, what with the ocean and all. He could live on the beach, or somewhere near it. Both of those options appealed to him far more than running an empire.

Of course, he'd have to wait until tomorrow to leave once and for all. Travel between districts had been restricted for everyone between the ages of twelve and eighteen, at least until the reapings were over. Apparently they didn't fancy hunting kids all across Panem and back.

There was a knock on the door, interrupting Damian's reverie, and he perked up. Maybe his mother had changed her mind? He dismissed that idea almost as quickly as it arrived. She was probably just going to yell at him some more.

He opened the door, expecting his mother and preparing for another tongue-lashing. What he found was much worse.

A woman in black, flanked on both sides by two peacekeepers, smiled at him with measured passivity. "Damian Ridge, you have been reaped for the One Hundredth Annual Hunger Games. Please come with us. Resistance will be met with force."

"Fine," he said, surprised by the control in his voice. The woman nodded, and he reluctantly followed.

So much for self-determination.

* * *

**Brand Coil, District Thirteen**

* * *

The desk lamp flickered every now and again, though it posed nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Brand certainly wasn't going to spend money on a new one.

If she had any money, of course. Which she didn't. But even if she did, she wouldn't waste it like that.

The last few bits of metal weren't fitting together all that well, but she'd make it work. She always had. It was her specialty: fixing all the little things that meant nothing in the long run, while fucking up anything that actually mattered.

Not many kids in Thirteen dropped out of school by age fifteen, mostly because they were content with living the life their parents had, so long as they had job security and what meager happiness they could scrape from the bones of routine. But fifteen-year-old Brand had other plans. She'd make a difference. She'd be better than the rest of them. She'd be free of District Thirteen's shackles, and she'd make a name for herself as an inventor, or maybe something else equally respectable.

Brand had wanted to be so many things, but she hadn't wanted to do the work. She didn't want to listen to the teachers, or her parents, because in her dark little heart of hearts, she thought she was better than them. Brand Coil, inventor extraordinaire. She didn't need any instructors because she knew everything already.

But natural talent only went so far.

Which was why eighteen-year-old Brand found herself stuck in an entry-level monitoring job at Reactor 12, and would likely stay in that position for the rest of her life. Unless she ran off to another district, which was entirely possible. She'd thought about it a lot.

Running away wouldn't solve anything, though. The scenery would be different, but her problems would remain the same because she _was_ the problem. It was something she'd only admit to herself. She was the one who dropped out of high school. She was the one who started drinking too young - though she'd managed to kick that habit a while ago. Not without doing irreparable damage to her relationship with her parents, though.

There were so many things she wanted to change, but she had no idea where to start.

So instead, she fixed up little devices and sometimes made a few of her own. Machines were easy. Unlike people, there was no gray area, and the problems were very easily addressed.

Except with this little piece of shit.

She wrestled with the screwdriver, trying to force the coiled wire and metal casing into place, but eventually she gave up with an exasperated sigh. No use. She'd made the shell just a bit too small to hold the machine's guts.

Strange. This was the first time in a long while that she'd made such a stupid mistake on a project. Perhaps it was due to stress, what with the reapings and all. Or maybe it was just the usual anxiety that came with being a general failure.

She picked up the little contraption, no bigger than her fist. It belonged in the basement, where nearly all of her creations went regardless of whether they worked or not. She'd actually managed to sell a few, but when it came to vending her wares, or interacting with people in general, she didn't have the best luck.

As she set foot on the first basement step, a knock sounded from the front door. She turned, eyebrows knit with concern. Her parents wouldn't be home from work for at least another few hours, and they usually had house keys anyways, which meant that it either had to be Dexter or a stranger. Neither prospect seemed very appealing, so she ignored it.

There was another knock, this time more urgent. They were persistent, whoever they were.

Brand didn't get the chance to ignore them again. Something smashed against the door from the other side, and the wooden barrier whipped open, revealing a small crowd of dark, masked figures standing on the front stoop. Distantly, Brand remembered that the Fourth Quarter Quell had been announced only hours before, and the President had mentioned something along the lines of "strange people come to take you away".

One of the peacekeepers surged forward, gun held level with her chest. "Brand Coil, you have been chosen-"

She screamed and chucked the machine at the guy's head before scrambling toward the back door. It struck the front of his visor, leaving a tiny white chip in the otherwise uniform iridescence, but the man barely seemed to notice. He was in front of her before she'd even cleared the living room.

"Ma'am, either you comply, or we make you comply."

More peacekeepers circled around her, and she knew there was no way to permanently escape tributehood unless she was prepared to die within the next few seconds. She was not.

Slowly, she held up her shaking hands. "Okay."

They fell upon her like wolves.

* * *

**Charne Valle, District Zero**

* * *

Soft twilight clung to the western horizon, leeching light from the sky, and a warm breeze blew through the meticulously manicured garden.

Charne sat in the gazebo at the edge of the lawn, picking at her toes with a faint, resentful frown. The nitwit pedicurist she'd seen earlier that week hadn't known the difference between raspberry and mauve, and her nail polish definitely showed it. Charne was a winter, not a summer, and she'd have to get the color fixed before she met up with her friends tomorrow.

"No, Isca," she said, rolling her eyes at the girl on the other end of the phone. "Charles hooked up with Lucinda, but Juno was okay with that because she was already cheating on him with Ophelia and Xavier."

"At the same time?"

"Yeah. Juno thinks they have an open relationship, but from what I heard, Charles isn't so keen on the idea. He's just a pig and wants to hook up with everyone, while having Juno remain faithful to him." Charne breathed a self-important sigh. "If I were her, I'd break up with the hypocrite."

Isca scoffed. "Charles has always been like that. It's not like Juno didn't have any prior warning."

"True." She sat up on the plush cushions, remembering what she'd learned that morning. "Isca, I have something to tell you, but you have to promise not to tell anyone else, okay?"

"Okay…"

Charne held her breath for a few moments, giving the information a sufficiently dramatic introduction. "You know about Yvonne Orwell? The valedictorian from last year?"

"Yeah," Isca answered. She sounded dubious.

"And you know about Jordan Velasquez, right? That one really hot senior on the water polo team?"

"I know _of_ him, sure. What about them?"

"Apparently, Jordan got Yvonne pregnant, and they both want to keep it, so her parents kicked her out! From what I heard, they're both going to District Ten to live with Jordan's uncle."

Isca gasped, and in the ensuing silence, Charne smiled to herself. She knew that Isca couldn't keep a secret for even ten seconds, but pretending that a bit of gossip was supposed to be kept under wraps automatically made it more valuable. Knowing all the dirt before anyone else made Charne important, and it was fun to talk about all the skeletons in everyone's closets, even if she had to embellish a bit here and there. Without it, life wouldn't be nearly so amusing.

"How did you find out about this?"

Charne shrugged, even though she knew Isca couldn't see her. "A friend of Jordan's brother. They're leaving in five days."

"Wow." She could sense Isca searching for words. "I mean, good for them, I guess? At least they have somewhere to go."

Charne almost answered, but a light went on in one of the upstairs rooms of her house, and a figure passed in front of the curtains. She sighed to herself. "Ugh. Isca, I think I have to go. My mom just woke up from her nap, and she doesn't like waking up to an empty house. Talk to you later."

She hung up, pocketed the phone, and hopped to her feet. Electric lanterns lined the path that wound through the garden, casting a soft, creamy light across the smooth paving stones and surrounding plants. A breeze played with the hem of her dress, rippling the white fabric, and she brushed her hair behind her ear. The day had been unusually placid. No school, since reaping day was always considered a national student holiday. But even then, the overwhelming silence was a bit unnerving.

Even the birds were quiet today. Charne spent a lot of time in her backyard, and the birds were only quiet was at night, during especially inclement weather, or when someone else was nearby.

The thought had barely crossed her mind when a chill ran up her spine. Had there been a sound?

She whipped around, eyes darting through the trees, searching for any unusual figures that didn't belong. But she saw nothing. Seconds ticked past, and she continued to see nothing.

With a strained sigh of relief, she turned back to the house.

The faceless, black-clad figure clamped a hand over her mouth before she had time to scream. An iridescent obsidian visor obscured the strangers' features, and she only saw her own terrified reflection, wide-eyed and ghostly pale in the semi-darkness of twilight.

* * *

**Evelyn Arellis, District Eight**

* * *

Terryn stared down at her hands, face grim and pale under the harsh kitchen lights. "I'm scared."

From across the table, Evelyn didn't look up from her meager dinner. "As you should be."

"People will die, Evelyn. In the worst ways imaginable. Doesn't that..." Terryn's face folded into an uncomprehending frown. "Don't you feel anything?"

"People have been dying since forever, Terryn. And the Hunger Games aren't exactly new. If anything, you should be happy, since this is the last one." She reached over and gave her young roommate a patronizing pat on the head. "Lighten up."

The inherent hypocrisy of that statement wasn't lost on Evelyn, and it brought a derisive grin to her lips. She may have had all the levity of a dead cat, but she wasn't about to give the government power over her personal feelings. Shitty or not, it was her life. She'd be happy just to spite them.

A dog barked from a few houses down, and Evelyn pulled the curtains back from the window to catch a glimpse of what the irritating creature had noticed. She watched a shiny black car drive down the street, sliding under the yellow streetlamps like a liquid shadow. It came to a stop at the opposite curb. The windows were tinted to hide anyone inside, and Evelyn frowned. She waited for a few moments, but nothing happened. No one moved inside the car.

Anxiety prickled in her gut, but she let the curtain fall. It was probably one of the neighbors being stupid. There was a lot of that going around in her neighborhood.

A few minutes later, as she was just starting to forget about the car, someone knocked on the front door, and her blood ran cold. Statistically speaking, since Terryn was only twelve, they were probably here for Evelyn.

Terryn gave her a wide-eyed, pleading stare.

"I'll get it," Evelyn said, voice suddenly hoarse. She cursed her own weakness.

Forcing her hands to remain steady, she unmatched the lock, and let the door creak open. Two peacekeepers stood in the hallway, dressed in military body armor, and Evelyn couldn't help but notice the subtle totalitarian flair in the cut of their outfits. These weren't just normal peacekeepers. They meant serious business. She decided that their opaque faceplates really completed the look.

The one on the left inclined her head. "Evelyn Arellis, you have been chosen to represent District Eight in the One Hundredth Annual Hunger Games. Please come peacefully. We are authorized to meet resistance with any force necessary."

Evelyn sighed.

Hysteria was starting to build in her core, but it was far enough down to hide underneath her well-practiced shell of sardonic non-emotion. She would keep it together. She always did.

But as the peacekeepers came closer, in light of the situation, her brittle, crystalline fear shone with a facet of utter exasperation. Everything she'd worked for, all of the little pieces that she'd scrounged up and tried so hard to protect, none of it mattered. They'd called her paranoid for being afraid, and yet here was her proof, breaking into the dingy apartment she had turned into a home and ripping her from one of the few people she could call an acquaintance, let alone a friend.

She'd fought for everything good in her life, and she'd always known that she was never more than a step away from the maw. Now, she was close enough to count the teeth, and a tiny part of her smiled with grim satisfaction. She'd expected it, and with the peacekeepers' arrival, she'd been vindicated.

In the long run, though, she'd rather have happiness - or the closest thing she could get - than petty vindication.

* * *

**Margery Kappel, District Seven**

* * *

The house was quiet. At least, it was supposed to be quiet.

Margery shuffled out of her room and down the hallway, running a hand through her hair and blinking to clear the bleariness from her eyes. She glanced at the small clock hanging on the wall, hands and numbers illuminated by the yellow streetlamp outside the window. It was much too early for someone to be making a ruckus.

Maybe it was just Noelle wandering about, creating as much noise as humanly possible while getting a glass of water. The girl was too young to always take other people into consideration. Sometimes she forgot, and accidentally waking everyone up at four in the morning wasn't totally unheard of.

Margery had nearly rounded the corner to the kitchen when a hand darted out from a doorway and pulled her inside. Another hand, cold and dry, clamped over her mouth, stifling her cry of panic.

"Be quiet. They might hear you."

It was just the twins. Darya gaped at her, lips trembling, and Jonas hung back in the shadows, eyes wide and strangely bright in the darkness. He'd been the one who pulled her inside the room.

"Who might hear us?" Margery asked, keeping her volume low to play along, though her fear was quickly turning into irritation. Jonas oftentimes pulled stupid pranks like this, and sometimes managed to rope Darya and others into it, too. They were supposed to be in bed, not prowling around the house and scaring the pants off of their older sister.

"The peacekeepers," Jonas whispered, voice oddly calm. "They're here to take one of us, I bet."

The blood drained from Margery's face. "What?"

A floorboard in the hallway squeaked, and Darya screamed at the top of her lungs. The lights went on, and Margery staggered back, her night vision overwhelmed by the sudden brightness.

"Margery Kappel," said one of the peacekeepers, "we request that you come with us. Resistance is ill-advised."

The doors along the hallway all slammed open, and she heard her parents and her siblings screaming at the peacekeepers, demanding to know what was going on. Darya's scream had awoken them, and now everyone, including Margery, was panicking.

"Citizens," said one of the peacekeepers, "we request that you remain where you are. We are here for Margery Kappel, and her alone."

Her eldest brother, still one year younger than herself, rushed forward without thinking. "Like hell you are!"

The peacekeeper simply sidestepped. His baton cracked against Roan's shoulder, and her brother screamed. Her father tried to intervene, perhaps to protect Roan or maybe pull the boy to his senses, but another baton flew from the mass of black-clad figures and struck the back of her fathers' knees. He fell, teeth bared and eyes watering.

Her mother, sisters, and two youngest brothers stood at the end of the hallway, the younger ones crying, the older ones in shock, and her mother looking as if she were about to collapse.

"Stop!" Margery cried, putting herself between the men and her brother. "I'll go! Just leave them alone!"

The batons froze. All eyes turned to her, sympathetic and unfeeling alike. A painful beat of silence sunk into the cracks of the room and froze there.

Her father pulled Roan to his feet, and her brother looked at her with a mix of pain, resignation, and disappointment. A little hurt, too.

_I stick my neck out for you, and you just give up?_

But he understood. There was no way her family could win against multiple well-trained peacekeepers. And even if they did, there would be more. There would always be more, and they would keep coming until they got what they wanted. And they wanted Margery.

She couldn't put her family in that sort of danger, especially since anything they did would just delay the inevitable or, worse yet, get someone killed.

As the peacekeepers swarmed around her, she offered Roan a regretful smile. She'd rather have him angry than have him dead.

A curtain of black fabric fell over her eyes, and she lost sight of her family, her home. Her everything.

They dragged her through the house, and she struggled to stay upright as her feet scuffed across the old carpet and hardwood flooring. They thrust her through the front door and into the muggy, early summer night. The chorus of crickets was nearly deafening, and somewhere nearby, a car engine sputtered to life.

Tears streaked down her face. In less than five minutes, they'd stripped her of everything.

She hadn't even had the chance to say goodbye.

* * *

**Owen Blackwood, District Four**

* * *

The television blared in the living room, casting blue light across his father's expressionless face. An anchorwoman from Zero sat behind a white table, her dark hair done up in a tight bun, and she gave a smile so tight that Owen was surprised her face didn't split open.

"Pardon the interruption," she said, her voice impossibly serene. "Citizens are reminded that physically interfering with a reaping can result in heavy fines or jail time. Assault on a peacekeeper carries a maximum sentence of twenty years. And now, your regularly scheduled programming."

Two flashy newscasters appeared on screen, debating about the potential tributes already gathered from other districts. They brought up a few eye-witness accounts and missing persons reports that had been filed within the last twenty-four hours, and the guy on the left claimed that they knew for certain who four of the tributes were.

These stupid gossip shows would find any way to reign people in, even if it meant capitalizing off of a tragedy. If it wasn't the violence, it was the suspense. If it wasn't the suspense, it was the mystique. After all, "The Last Hunger Games" had a bit of a ring to it.

Owen rolled his eyes and headed for the door. He needed to clear his head.

From the kitchen, his mother called, "Where are you going, Owen?"

Her voice shrilled with worry, and Owen winced. He knew she was just scared - after losing one son to the Game, she had every right to be. Perhaps he should have been scared, too, and he was. But not nearly as much as he should have been.

"I'm going for a walk," he said, leaning forward to catch sight of her as she bustled around the kitchen. "I'll be back whenever."

From the couch, his younger sister said, "Have a nice time."

He smiled at her in thanks, and headed out into the bright morning sunlight.

Stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets, he stared down at the ground. He didn't know if the District Four male had been reaped yet, but he knew his chances weren't great. He'd taken out a lot of tessarae for various reasons, though mostly in order to sell the supplies for money. He'd lost count of how many times his name would be entered into the reaping bowl this year, but it was somewhere north of two hundred. His family wouldn't have had enough to make ends meet otherwise.

He veered left onto a small road that would take him to the ocean side. After a minute or two, he heard a car approaching, and out of the corner of his eye, he watched a black van with tinted windows drive up alongside him and match its pace to his. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

The passenger window rolled down, and an empty voice asked, "Owen Blackwood?"

He stopped, eyes fixed straight ahead. The car stopped, too. Could he lie? Could he fight? Could he flee?

No. They would catch him. They would win.

Slowly, carefully, he turned to face the shadowy figures in the window. "Who's asking?"

They ignored his question and took his response as confirmation. Or perhaps they knew all along, and had only asked him as a formality. "Owen Blackwood, you have been chosen to represent District Four in the One Hundredth Annual Hunger Games."

He thought of running. To where, he didn't know. Anywhere that wasn't here.

As if reading his mind, the voice said, "Son, you have two choices. You can comply, or you can resist. Compliance will result in no immediate harm to your person. Resistance, however, may result in lethal force being used against you. If so, we will simply find another tribute to replace you."

Owen sniggered. It wasn't much of a choice if he was fucked either way.

"I guess I'll comply, then," he said, giving them a dead smile.

The vans' back doors swung out, and two people hopped onto the street, faces hidden by black visors. They were both taller than him, which was fairly unusual considering he was nearly six foot five. One held up a black bag, and Owen's gut clenched as they stepped forward and pulled it down over his face.

"Really?" he asked, almost more exasperated than afraid. He'd already agreed to comply. Was the bag really necessary?

Hands wrapped around him, pushing him forward, and he stumbled in the general direction of the van. They threw him inside, and the doors slammed shut behind him.

Though he had made no move to resist, a needle pricked his neck and sent a wave of ice water through his veins, numbing everything in its path. He drew a sharp breath, cringing as the fear swelled, then slowly died down, smothered by the haze of nothingness that rolled across mind. Desperately, he tried to hold onto the anger, the fear, anything at all. But it all crumbled in his grasp and he fell into the blank space.

* * *

**Polly Brady, District Three**

* * *

The water shone dully under an overcast sky, but compared to the way it had looked only a few years ago, it was absolutely gorgeous. A few of the more zealous locals had decided to implement a clean-up effort for the neighborhood waterways, and by all reasonable measurements, they had been quite successful. The expanse of water before them was rather like a pond, but the residents of District Three, having rarely seen anything that could remotely qualify as non-urban, took pride in referring to the now-clean patch of reeds and water as a lake.

Regardless of designation, Polly liked it because, contrary to the rest of the district, this place offered a sense of calm. No demands, no one telling her she wasn't enough. It was nice.

Cayla leaned her elbows against the metal railing and gave a theatrical sigh. "But if you moved to District Eight, you'd be around other people who shared your interests."

"That's the problem, though. If I go where all of the fashion designers are, not to mention all of the textile tycoons, I won't be able to find a job. If I stay here, at least the market isn't flooded with factory-made clothing. I just can't compete with that." Polly's mouth quirked with a facetious smile. "And I don't really know how you'd live without me."

Cayla rested her chin on her fist and rolled her eyes. "I'd find a way."

This time, Polly allowed herself a real smile. She hadn't been able to speak so freely, or even just be herself, around anyone else in a long time.

Most people in District Three didn't want much to do with her. She didn't quite have the typical mindset, and she certainly didn't have the typical skill set. Very few students decided to pursue a career that deviated from computers or technology, let alone math and science in general. But she had forgone all those things in favor of fashion and clothing design, which she was actually good at. And that was how she'd met Cayla, her first real friend in maybe forever, so she'd taken it as a sign that things all worked out in the end.

A car pulled up in the parking lot behind them, but neither of them turned to look, too busy were they in enjoying each others' company. A sudden wind picked up, sending ripples across the formerly placid lake. Car doors opened and slammed shut, and boots clacked across the cement walkway.

Two hands fell onto Polly's shoulders, and before she had time to scream, another one clamped over her mouth, and another around her waist. They dragged her away, toward the car in the parking lot.

"Polly Brady, you have been reaped for the One Hundredth Annual Hunger Games. We demand your compliance."

After a split-second of uncomprehending shock, Polly wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. She wanted to let them know what sort of terror these people were putting her through, but she couldn't. Not yet.

Cayla stood alone on the sidewalk, hands hanging at her sides and strands of hair whipping around her narrow face, watching them take Polly away and completely powerless to do anything. She looked so small, so delicate. So sad.

Falling backward into the darkness, rough arms grasped at Polly's body as voices commanded her to remain still. In her panic, she kicked out, and her foot connected with the side of someone's helmet. A woman shouted, and a harsh string of curses quickly followed.

"Restrain her!" someone cried, and the van doors slammed shut, closing Polly off from the only world she'd ever known.

Even as the strangers held her down and shot her up with whatever drugs they had on hand, Cayla's tear-streaked face hung at the forefront of Polly's mind.

This couldn't be happening.

* * *

**And that concludes the "reapings". Let's be real, this was so much more fun to write. If everything stays on track, there will be six more of these 8-POV chapters, and then we have the bloodbath.**

**So, I'll try to keep to at least a weekly Sunday schedule, but I have midterms this week so it might take a bit longer. Y'know, school and life and stuff. **

**Thank you so much for the reviews! Each and every one fills my authorial heart with joy.**

**Now, since this is the first chapter where I start showing off the tributes, here's my "review policy" (I put it in quotes because otherwise it probably sounds pretentious, and who knows maybe it still does): Reviews are not the be-all, end-all deciding factor of a tribute's placement. The story itself is much too important for that. However, I do take reviews into consideration when I'm stuck between two equally good tributes with equally viable personalities and plotlines. But really, as long as I know what you think of the story (i.e., as long as I know you're still reading and still invested), I will be happy. Letting me know through PMs and Skype are just as good as reviews. (A big review number is very nice, though.)**

**Anyways, thanks for reading, and hopefully I'll see you in a week.**


	5. Trains

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Adara Tassin, District Twelve**

* * *

Adara did not wake up all at once.

She realized she was in a car when it drove over a bump, throwing her head against the metal floor with a muffled thump that send a dull flash of red across her eyelids. A minimum of three peacekeepers sat around her, and she knew they were there because they spoke about the other tribute from her district - some kid named Ace, who apparently put up a nasty fight. Memories of the last few hours returned in bits and pieces as the sedative wore off, and bit by miserable bit, she slowly became aware that she was, without a doubt, more angry than she'd been in her entire life.

Scared, too. But mostly angry.

With straining muscles, she drew herself into a sitting position, and the conversation around her ceased. She glanced up, and saw the three peacekeepers, faces obscured and guns pointed at her. Did they really expect her to attack them? Or did they habitually point loaded weapons at restrained, half-dazed prisoners?

"Adara Tassin," said the one on the left, "you have-"

"Been reaped, yadda yadda, prepare to die, yeah, got it. Save your speech for someone who cares." She was taken aback by her own bitterness, especially since these people could very well kill her if they felt like it, but any surprise evaporated in the heat of her anger. She had every right to be bitter, and they surely wouldn't kill their oh-so-celebrated tribute just for giving them some sass.

The rifles' aim lowered, though not by much.

"Can someone untie me?" she asked, trying to flex fingers that had long since gone numb. "I'm starting to think I'm in some fetish porno." One of the peacekeepers flinched and Adara grinned to herself, happy to see at least one of them finally show some emotion.

"We've nearly arrived," one said, her voice level and cold. "You'll survive another two minutes."

Adara rolled her eyes. "Phrasing! I mean, for shit's sake, s_urvive_? I'm in the Hunger Games! Just how insensitive are you?"

The tension in the van was palpable, and Adara reveled in her captors' discomfort. Anything to make them pay.

Of course, they weren't really the ones at fault. They were just tools of the government, running around and carrying out orders, not actually doing anything of their own volition. That didn't spare them Adara's loathing, though. It just meant they were cruel_ and_ stupid.

A few minutes of barbed silence scraped past before the van finally rolled to a stop. The peacekeepers stood, and one helped Adara to her feet, though they had to crouch to avoid hitting their heads on the ceiling. One of them withdrew a switchblade, and though Adara's gut clenched at the sight, he only used it to cut the ropes around her wrists. The blood returned to her hands in a surge of tingling pain, and she briefly considered punching one of them, but logic won out.

The doors swung open, letting in a flood of late afternoon sunlight. Adara blinked rapidly, trying to accustom her eyes to the overwhelming brightness. The peacekeepers shoved her out of the vehicle with unnecessary force, though they were considerate enough to make certain that she didn't fall on her face.

Still half-blinded by the light, Adara at first had trouble recognizing her surroundings. Black roof, white pavement, silver tracks. A memory rose from her childhood, standing on the platform and waiting to greet her father.

They'd brought her to the train station.

She wasn't sure why that surprised her.

A gleaming white train sat idling on the tracks, and a middle-aged woman stood at the loading zone, facing away from Adara and the peacekeepers. Her hair was drawn up into a tight bun, exposing her neck and upper shoulders, along with the top edge of a nasty, never-quite-healed scar.

"Hello," Adara said, keeping the vitriol in her voice to a minimum as she shrugged off the peacekeepers.

Katniss Everdeen turned around with a hardened expression. She appeared much older than forty-two. "So you're it?"

"I'm it."

Katniss looked over the peacekeepers, then rested her gaze on Adara and gestured to the metal behemoth. "Your chariot awaits."

As they headed to the train, a young boy poked his head out of the doorway, grinning despite the fresh bruise running along the ridge of his right eyebrow. "Hi! I'm Ace!"

"This is your district partner," Katniss said. "Adeline decided to mentor him, so I guess I'm stuck with you."

Katniss's bitterness was renowned throughout the district, what with the whole failed Mockingjay Uprising. The yearly re-branding on her back probably didn't do much to improve her mood, either.

Adara settled into a seat across from her mentor, who didn't even spare her a second glance. It was going to be a long train ride.

* * *

**Florian Casimir, District One**

* * *

For once in his life, Florian was at a loss for words. He was used to dealing with people of high status, but the two mentors fell into a special category that made him a bit uncomfortable. They embodied the best of what District One had to offer, and he would either learn a lot from them or embarrass himself horribly.

"Why don't you light it?" Danique asked, pointing to the cigarette in Lourde's mouth.

He took it out and shrugged. "Because we're in an enclosed space. I'll light up later."

"Okay, question." Ivory placed her hands on the table and leaned forward. "Have either of you had any training?"

Danique settled her hands into her lap and let her eyes wander down. "No, not really."

With a raised eyebrow, Lourde said, "Those are two different answers. No, or not really?"

She gave him a hard look. "No. I haven't had any training."

He nodded. "That's more like it." He and Ivory turned to Florian with expectant gazes.

With an easy smile, Florian said, "Of course."

Ivory let out an obvious sigh of relief, prompting a nasty glare from Lourde. She twirled a strand of golden hair around her finger and asked, "How many years and how often?"

Florian made a shaky, noncommittal gesture with his hand. He'd actually played with the idea of volunteering after his father's business failed - or, more accurately, was systematically dismantled by the District One Regulations Board - but he'd also known that, since his father had run a training center that directly competed with the main Academy, he was the last person they'd ever pick to volunteer. They wouldn't want to give him such an honor. Still, he'd trained a bit. Just in case. "Two and a half years, more or less. My average is probably twice a week."

Ivory visibly deflated. "Oh." Crossing her arms, she said, "You got my hopes up for nothing." She nudged Lourde and put on a toothy grin. "Looks like we're gonna lose the last Game, huh babe? Isn't that ironic? We won the first and lost the last."

The man with the unlit cigarette clenched between his teeth looked ready to stab someone. "Ivory, if I cared about your observations, I would have asked. And don't call me babe. You have a boyfriend. It's fucking weird."

She wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned her head against his shoulder. "You're so hot when you're angry."

Lourde gave the tributes a long-suffering stare and removed the cigarette from his mouth. Gesturing to Florian, he said, "I think I'll take you."

"Hey!" Ivory disengaged herself and pulled away. "I want Florian!"

"Sorry. You didn't say anything. And since you've written them both off, I figured you wouldn't care." He put the cigarette back in his mouth. "My decision is final."

In a huff, Ivory turned up her nose and looked out the window.

Florian watched Danique's face fall and felt a twinge of resentment toward their mentors. Didn't they see how big of an impact their attitudes and words had?

He took Danique's hand and squeezed. Her eyes met his, and he winked. If their mentors weren't going to do their job properly, he'd be there for her instead.

"Anyways," Lourde said, "back to business. You'll need an alliance, first of all."

Florian flashed a white smile. "Shouldn't be too difficult."

"Don't be so sure of yourself, kid," Ivory said, leaning her cheek on her fist.

Florian narrowed his eyes and turned to his district partner. "Danique, would you like to ally?"

She gave him a startled, yet hopeful look. "Sure."

Ivory laughed out loud. It was the sort of unnecessarily cruel gesture that made Florian want to shove a platter of food in her face. That would have been awfully improper, though, so he stayed his hand.

"Ignore her," Lourde said. "She took too many bitch pills this morning." Before the other mentor could rise to the insult, he continued. "Ally with whoever you want, as long as you're prepared to deal with the consequences."

Florian nodded. He thought he was prepared. Of course, there was still a lot he didn't know about Danique, but that could be dealt with later. He had time to learn. In the meantime, he had to focus on his own well-being and chances of victory, which possibly meant finding another ally or two. He hoped Danique would agree.

After all, the more, the merrier.

* * *

**Enoch Emeris, District Zero**

* * *

Enoch did not want to be here. He did not want to talk to these people. Above all, he did not want to take part in the Hunger Games.

And yet here he was, chatting away with two mentors and a girl whose normal conversation made pumice stone look like high-quality cashmere. Every time she made a derisive comment about their quarters, or Margery's hairstyle, or literally anything that crossed her mind, Enoch forced himself to smile and laugh, or nod, or make any sort of affirmative gesture. The muscles in his face were starting to tire. He'd keep up the act, though. Even if she was a bitch, he wanted her to like him.

He wanted everyone to like him. Everyone who mattered, at least. And as annoying as she was, Charne mattered.

After allowing some time to settle in, their mentors summoned them to the common area to discuss their plans for the coming days.

"Whether you're inclined to play defense or offense," Cyprion said as they sat down around the coffee table, "you have to have a plan."

Charne rolled her eyes. "Really? Until you mentioned it, I was just going to rush in blind and make it up as I go along."

The mentor laced his fingers together. "Cut it out. That attitude won't get you anywhere."

With a huff and a smirk, Enoch said, "I don't think she's capable of any other mode of existence."

His district partner cut him a dirty look. "You've got a mouth on you, Emeris."

_As if you're one to talk._

The corner of his lips twitched, but he kept smiling. "So you noticed!" He clasped his hands and leaned forward. "If you look closely, you'll also see that I have two eyes, and a nose, and even some hair. It all comes together to form a rather nice face, I think."

Charne snickered. "Is that what you call it?"

Marguerite looked up from her clipboard. "Now, children."

Despite her infuriating disposition, Enoch didn't actually want to fight with her, because it was counterproductive and it would do no good to make an enemy on day one. Especially his district partner. So he gritted his teeth and forced his expression to lighten. He turned to her and, in as convincing a tone as he could manage, said, "I think we're both capable of being civil to each other, at least for the next few days. Agreed?"

Sinking farther into her chair, she crossed her arms and looked away. After a moment, she sighed, and her posture softened. "I suppose so."

Satisfied with the tributes' truce, the mentors discussed past years, though they focused mainly on the more recent Games and the strategies employed by those who won. Cephas Peterson, a Career from the Eighty-Fourth Game, abandoned the Pack and let them kill each other off, leaving himself as the strongest tribute in the arena. Leila Nyren, from the Eigthy-Ninth Game, seduced the strongest Career and slit his throat when they reached the final three. Nestor Knowles, from the Ninety-Fifth Game, used those around him as shields against the Careers and mutts, and unflinchingly killed his allies when they were the only ones left. There was much to learn from the victors of the past.

Cyprion and Marguerite finally let them go when the clock's hands hovered near midnight. Since the training center opened around nine in the morning, they'd probably get enough sleep, so long as nerves didn't keep them awake.

Once released, Charne let out a melodramatic sigh, staggered to her room, sprawled out on the bed, and put on a surprisingly charming come hither grin when Enoch paused in the doorway. Patting the empty space beside her, she said, "There's room for you, too."

He fought to suppress a smirk. "You're not my type."

"Oh really?" she asked, tone rising with mock-offense. She propped herself up on her elbows. "And just what is your type? Farm animals?"

Irritation seared his insides, but he successfully fought to conceal it. He wouldn't let her get under his skin. "_Good night, Charne_."

As he headed down the hall, she snorted like a pig and broke down into a fit of laughter. It wasn't a clean sound. Her voice carried an edge of hysteria, something scared and desperate, and he winced because he knew, no matter how much he hated himself for it, he felt the same way. The same fear. The same weakness. The same imperfection.

_No._

He was better than that. He had to be, in order to make it out alive.

Even if it meant lying to himself, burying the negativity so deep that he could pretend it didn't exist. Otherwise, his situation - the terror, the danger, the things he would have to do, have to endure - would swallow him whole.

* * *

**Nynette Saghas, District Nine**

* * *

First, the peacekeepers had broken into her house and dragged her away from her family. Then, they took her to the train, and forced her to wait with the mentors for a number of hours before they brought her district partner. Now, this newly arrived boy was, as far as she could tell, doing everything in his power to drive her insane.

She was ready to scream.

As their mentors gave the introductory speech, her district partner cracked his knuckles. One. By. One. Not paying attention, not giving the victors their due respect. Just making noise. Pointless, ugly noise.

She reached out and wrapped her fingers around Samson's hand. "Stop doing that."

He made a weird face and pulled away from her. "Okay…"

Nynette stared at him until she was certain that he meant it, then gave a satisfied nod. Some people didn't realize how irritating they could be. Nynette, on the other hand, knew how much she annoyed other people. She wished she could be different, but some things were unbearable, and she didn't want to endure those awful, disgusting, useless sounds if she didn't have to.

Sensing the tension between them, Eli said, "Well, as we were saying-"

"-there isn't really any set of given rules for every arena." Isaac finished.

The twins, supposedly fraternal though they could have been identical, were District Nine's most recent victors. Eli's darker hair and eyes were the only things that reliably distinguished them from each other. They'd both been reaped and won consecutive years. Everyone knew that it had been rigged - after all, what were the chances of both twins getting reaped, especially within a two-year time span? But the sensation of twin victors overshadowed any suspicion that would have cropped up.

"So," Eli continued, "the only advantage you can give yourself on such short notice is a strong alliance. Or, if you'd prefer to go solo, make sure you have a solid understanding of the other tributes. Understanding your enemies can make or break you, because in the Game, the tributes are the only constant. The arena may change, the gamemakers may change, but scared teenagers don't."

"They aren't enemies," Nynette said. "They're kids. Like us."

Isaac smirked, but it was an expression devoid of amusement, more pitying than anything. "Not anymore. If they're willing to kill you, they're the enemy."

"I'd rather not think of other people in that way."

"Get used to it," said Samson, with more of an edge than necessary. "You'll have to if you want to live."

Eli pointed to her district partner. "See? He's got the right idea."

They entered a tunnel, throwing the cabin into darkness, and Nynette crossed her arms. Since when had everyone decided to gang up on her?

Sensing her discontent, Eli added, "Look. I know you want things to work a certain way." He gestured to his brother, as well as Samson. "We all do. But it doesn't. And if you don't adapt, you _will_ die." He pressed his hands together and leaned his chin on the tips of his middle fingers. "And if you aren't comfortable with that, ally with someone who is. Use their strength to your advantage."

"So manipulate them, basically?"

"Don't be deliberately obtuse." He shook his head, and looked out of the window. "You'll have to manipulate people, even if it's a mutually beneficial relationship. You don't have to like it. You just have to live."

"I don't manipulate people."

Her mentor's face warped with a strange expression, as if he couldn't understand why she would be so dense. "Any alliance you make will be, on some level, manipulation. Assuming you plan to win, you'll stick around with a few people, using them for their capabilities and resources, and maybe even companionship, all while secretly hoping that they'll die before you do." He leaned closer. "You've been dragged into a very bad situation, Nynette. If you plan on surviving, you have to get off your high horse and accept reality."

Nynette cringed away, stung by his words, annoyed in spite - or perhaps because - of the truth they carried. She didn't want to use people. She didn't want to hurt people. She didn't want to become the person her mentor had described.

She just wanted to go home.

* * *

**Ryder Corinthus, District Six**

* * *

She paced the length of the train, biting her nails. Three pairs of eyes followed her, either irritated or concerned, and she didn't care which. Maybe if they watched long enough, she'd do a trick.

Ryder had never been very good at sitting still. Or standing still. Or anything that involved a lack of motion, really. The fact that she could be dead in a few days didn't help. She wanted to move while she still could.

"Nervously walking around won't help anything," Tristan said, steepling his fingers and trying to look smart.

Ryder rolled her eyes and let her hand fall to her side. "I'll do what I please."

"Uh huh," he deadpanned, seemingly unconvinced. "I just think that maybe discussing strategy would be slightly more productive."

"We can strategize later."

"Actually," Nyx said, her voice tremulous with age, "he has a point. It's better to start now, when it's just you two. Later, you won't have nearly so much privacy."

After a brief pause, Ryder decided to make a compromise. "Sure, we can talk. But I'm not going to sit down." She snatched an hors d'oeuvre from a silver platter, some sort of shrimp something, and stuffed it into her mouth. Her sleeve slipped down to her elbow, revealing her forearm, and her mentor's eyebrows drew together in concern.

"What happened to your arm, love?"

Glancing down at the dark splotch of skin just under her wrist, Ryder shrugged. With a full mouth, she answered, "One of the peacekeepers got a little grabby, I guess."

Nyx shook her head in disappointment. "Just a little, huh?"

Ryder drew a long breath. "Well, I might have punched them." After a moment's hesitation, she added, "Repeatedly." Nyx let loose a hearty laugh, and even Axel, ever the stone-faced pessimist, cracked a grin.

"Maybe not the wisest choice, but it's good to know you got some fight in you," Nyx said. "Now, you just have to harness it."

"Oh yeah?" she asked, absentmindedly twirling a strip of hair around her finger. "And just how would I do that?"

"Set an objective," Axel said. Ryder jumped a little at the sound of his voice, since it was the first time he'd spoken since boarding the train. "Give yourself something to put your energy toward. Survival is the main goal, but between here and victory, there are a lot of smaller objectives that you'll have to complete. You want to live? Find food and water, find shelter, acquire a weapon, fight off any attackers." He stopped short of "kill the other tributes", but the implication was there nonetheless.

Ryder nodded to herself. "Makes sense. Little goals add up to the big goal."

"You'll want to find an ally or two," Nyx said. "Granted, not every victor had an alliance, but it certainly doesn't hurt."

"Unless they're crazy psychos willing to kill their allies," Ryder pointed out. "Then it kinda defeats the purpose."

"True. But," she said, eyeing Tristan, "if you ally with your district partner, there's a high likelihood that he won't betray you. After all, those who murder their district partners generally become pariahs, even if it is necessary in the end."

"Insurance, basically," Ryder said, mulling the idea over.

Nyx nodded.

Ryder turned to Tristan. "Well? Are you a crazy psycho?"

He smiled just a bit too wide, she hoped on purpose. "Last time I checked? No." He raised his hands in a noncommittal gesture. "But who knows? It's a crazy world we live in."

"Uh huh." She thought for a moment, and came to the conclusion that he probably wouldn't try to stab her in the neck the first chance he got. But if he did, she'd be ready. "Wanna be allies?"

He smirked. "I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

**Armand Castillo, District Eleven**

* * *

Will Husker and Devara Cheran welcomed them aboard the train as a pair of funeral directors would welcome two new corpses. Armand immediately decided that he didn't like them or their bleak demeanor.

"Please," Will said, gesturing to the chairs across from him. "Take a seat."

Sinora didn't sit down so much as congeal into a sitting position. Armand eyed her up and down. He'd never seen her around District Eleven. Of course, there were a lot of people he'd never seen.

"So," Devara said, peering at them with passing interest, "what skills do you have?"

"I'd rather not talk," Sinora said, rolling over to face the window. "I don't have to prepare a speech for you."

Pursing her lips, Devara turned to Armand. "And you, young man?"

Leaning back in his seat, Armand smiled. "I'm good at just about everything."

Freelancer of felony, prince of purloin, ragamuffin ruler of a strictly-organized, highly successful, much-hated crime syndicate - in his mind, Armand was all of these things and more. The self-proclaimed mob-boss hadn't taken too kindly to being reaped, though it hardly surprised him.

He was the biggest and the baddest, and whoever said it was lonely at the top was sadly mistaken. The top wasn't lonely at all. It was an overcrowded warzone. People were never satisfied with just being at the peak, so they fought for the apex because there's only room enough for one. But the apex was precarious. One false move, one push in the wrong direction, and it's all over.

Armand was at the apex, and people were constantly trying to bring him down so that they could take his place.

He and his gang were the real deal. They went where they wanted, did what they wanted, took what they wanted. No adults to tell them what to do, no rules, no nothing. They lived in stolen space and ate stolen food, and he ran the whole operation. They reported to him, followed his orders, and he liked it that way. He was king.

Though Armand hated everything about his current situation, he took solace in the fact that the peacekeepers probably had a bitch of a time finding him. He and his brother had left the orphanage a while back, so the idiots with guns probably had to ask around, telling everyone that they were gonna bring down the local crime lord in one fell swoop. Armand knew that's why they reaped him. He and his mooks had caused so much trouble, stolen so many things and disrupted so much of the local commerce that the authorities had finally decided to put their foot down and cut the snake off at the head.

_We'll just send him to die in the arena. Solve the Armand problem and save some other sap from the chopping block. Two birds with one stone._

Armand knew that was why they'd chosen him, "unbiased selection" his ass, but he didn't regret his decisions and wouldn't let the Game intimidate him. He was the toughest kid in District Eleven. He didn't _need_ to be scared.

Of course, he failed to realize that the antics of a rag-tag team of prepubescent boys hardly concerned the local authorities, let alone the entire district. It never occurred to him that his entry into the Hunger Games could have been due purely to bad luck. After all, the world revolved around Armand Castillo.

* * *

**Aviana Recine, District Ten**

* * *

The train ride had gone well enough. Juniper, Aviana's mentor, was quiet, but helpful. They'd discussed a wide range of topics that would potentially arise in the Game, like dealing with difficult allies and finding food and water. Her district partner, Benjamin, seemed pretty nice, though there was something reckless about him that she didn't quite like. She had nothing against free spirits - in fact, she liked to think of herself as one - but Benjamin was something else. He was just a bit_ too_ charming.

"Now," Juniper said, "since you won't have to get into a chariot and parade around in front of a crowd, that gives you some extra time to rest up and strategize. You might want to consider eating as much as possible in your free time, since these are the Hunger Games and the arenas tend to lack decent food supplies." She pulled out a notepad. "Here are some other suggestions that-"

"Look at that!" Aviana interrupted, leaning over Benjamin's lap. She knew that being so close would probably make him at least a little uncomfortable, but boundaries were meant to be tested, anyways. People tended to show their true colors when dragged outside of their comfort zones.

A little irritated, her district partner asked, "Look at what?"

She pointed out the window, and a strand of her hair brushed against Benjamin's leg. "District Zero, silly!"

The city stood bright against the night, blue and white neon light flooding the sky above and drowning out the stars. A few airships drifted across the skyline, one even displaying _WELCOME, TRIBUTES_ on the side in big red pixels.

"At least they're happy to see us," Aviana said, returning to her seat.

Fae shook her head. "It's just a formality. They aren't going to _see_ any of you until the Game begins."

"They can't keep us totally hidden, can they?" Aviana wrinkled her nose, a little let-down by the thought. She'd at least wanted some recognition, maybe even the flash of a camera or two as she waved to an adoring crowd, even if it was all fake. "I'm sure some glory hounds will come looking for us, and then tell the rest of Panem who the tributes really are. I mean, people here are like that, right?"

"Some of them," Fae agreed, "but they've made that punishable by a fine of two hundred and fifty thousand gold and ten years imprisonment with no parole. No one will look for you, and if an unauthorized person, by some unlucky accident, actually manages to find you, they will keep their mouths shut if they know what's good for them."

Aviana blew a halfhearted raspberry. "That stinks."

"It's a blessing and a curse," Fae said. "You won't have to go through the stress of the chariot rides and the interviews, but you also won't have a chance to make your case to the sponsors. They'll go for whoever looks the strongest or the prettiest." She paused and gave Aviana a once-over. "You should be fine, actually."

A satisfied, bashful blush washed over Aviana's face, and she pressed her hands to her cheeks. "Oh, you." She knew that she was pretty, or at least pretty enough, and even though she didn't want to be vain, it was always nice to hear others agree. If it meant that people would sponsor her for it, all the better.

"And me?" asked Benjamin, daring to be hopeful.

Even though she was his mentor, Fae's split-second hesitation spoke volumes. "Well, you certainly don't look weak."

"On the bright side," said Juniper, trying to salvage the conversation, "there won't be as many Careers this time, so you'll look stronger in comparison, and the sponsor money will likely be split more evenly."

"Uh huh," Benjamin said, obviously let-down. "I guess that's a plus."

Aviana wrapped her arm around his neck and kissed his cheek. "It's okay! We won't need sponsors."

And for a moment, she almost believed it.

* * *

**Niko Sundita, District Thirteen**

* * *

A dark van full of peacekeepers met them at the train station and shuttled them to the hotel, all for the sake of "keeping the tribute identities secret", apparently. The peacekeepers made Niko nervous, but at least that meant no paparazzi.

When they arrived, the ornate building was nearly empty. A lone woman, dressed in a wide array of colorful silks, met them at the entryway. She introduced herself as the hotel manager and told them that she had been sworn to secrecy, and like all of the other hotel staff, wasn't allowed to leave or communicate with the outside world until the Game began. As per District Zero orders, all of the other guests had been forced to leave.

Niko thought it was ridiculous.

"The tributes from Districts Zero, One, Two, Four, Five, Ten, and Eleven have already arrived," she said. "You will meet them tomorrow. In the meantime, one of our waitstaff will show you to your quarters."

On cue, a young man, probably only a few years older than Niko himself, appeared in the archway and beckoned them forward. "Please, follow me."

They entered a gilded elevator and ascended to the seventh floor, whereupon the panel dinged and the doors slid open to reveal a sparsely furnished, granite-floored hallway. The man brought them to room 64, handed Azura the keys, bowed, and left.

Brand and the mentors all hurried into the room, but as Niko crossed the threshold, his breath caught in his throat and he froze. The suite had four bedrooms, one kitchen, one living room, a bathroom, and another closed door at the end of the hall, the purpose of which he could only guess. A dark table sat in the center of the kitchen, topped with a fancy looking flower pot, and abstract paintings hung on the pristine white walls. He crept through the living room and down the hallway, feeling out of place, like he might mess something up just by being there. This hotel suite was bigger than his house.

He'd never been anywhere so nice before.

Sticking his head inside one of the rooms, he saw a huge bed wrapped in sheer, creamy sheets. It looked very comfortable. A tall window spanned one of the walls, looking out across the city - or, at least, a projection of the city. There was even a personal bathroom, with a big mirror and a tiled floor and everything.

"You know," someone said, startling Niko, "you can actually step inside."

His mentor, Oren, walked up beside him and cocked his head toward the room. "It's all yours."

"Are you sure?" Niko asked. Realizing how silly the question was, he quickly added, "I just don't want to ruin anything. It all looks so nice."

Oren smiled. "You could strip the sheets and burn them, and they still wouldn't mind. Really, you're fine."

Niko nodded. He wasn't concerned about pissing the hotel people off, or even ruining the furniture in and of itself. They could take care of their own problems. He was worried about ruining the unruined snow.

Once, when he was younger, a storm blew into District Thirteen, and over the course of one night, wrapped everything in a blanket of glimmering white. The peeling paint, broken fences, and dirty roads disappeared under a thick layer of fluffy, sparkling snow, transforming his sub-par neighborhood into something beautiful, something clean, something so silent that it bordered on eerie. But the effect didn't last long.

Before even a few hours passed, people had walked all over it, or driven through it, or shoveled it away, leaving streaks of mud and churning up the once-uniform planes of snow. Whatever made it so special, Niko had come to suspect, resided solely in the untarnished, pristine quality of it all. Once contaminated, the magic disappeared.

That was how he felt now. He didn't want to move things around or otherwise claim the room as his own, lest he leave it uglier than before. He'd seen so few genuinely pretty things in his life that he had a tendency to cling to the few that he could get his hands on.

Nevertheless, heeding his mentor's advice, he took a few tentative steps forward, eyeing the luxury with a mixture of awe, jealousy, and disbelief. What he wouldn't give to have a fraction of this luxury back home, or to share it with his family.

Hesitantly, he lowered himself onto the bed. The mattress didn't even squeak, and it was the softest thing he'd ever had the pleasure of lying on.

He didn't stand a chance.

When Oren came back to check on him, he found the boy fast asleep on top of the covers. Niko's shirt had ridden up, exposing his stomach and a nasty, half-healed bruise that ran along the side of his ribcage. Oren frowned.

The prep team would probably be able to get rid of it, but that still begged the question of where the bruise came from. Oren shrugged, and returned to the kitchen, where Azura waited to discuss strategies with him. He could ask the kid in the morning.

* * *

**Look at that, two weeks exactly. I planned on finishing the chapter yesterday, but FanFiction was being lame. Anyways, here are the next eight! Let me know what you think of them.**

**Next chapter is Training Day One. See you then!**


	6. Training

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Sinora Midori, District Eleven**

* * *

Sinora wasn't actually asleep. Just pretending.

Out in the living room and kitchen, Armand and the mentors were getting ready to face the day. Coffee, words, clanking silverware. She didn't want any of it.

All her life, she'd never wanted any of it. Sleeping was better than work, silence was better than noise, nothing was better than something. Sure, people disliked her for it, despised the lazy girl who would rather stay home than break her back working in the fields. No matter what they did to motivate her, she just didn't care. Not even her abduction into the Hunger Games had done anything to phase her. It was simply another thing, another event that slipped past on the river of dull unimportance that was her life.

If she could have stayed there, forever lying in the twilight between sleep and wakefulness, she might have been happy. But alas, it was not meant to be.

Someone knocked on the door, and she remained silent, hoping that they would go away. They knocked again, though, and taking advantage of the lockless doors, barged in without asking. It was Armand.

Of course.

"Hey, Sinora," he said, one hand on the door knob and one on the frame as he leaned into the room. "It's almost time for training, and Devara told me to wake you up, so get your ass out of bed." When she still didn't respond, he walked over and started to kick the bed frame. "Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey, Sinora. Hey. Devara wants you."

"Go away," Sinora moaned. She grabbed one of the pillows from the bed and threw it at his head.

He caught it, and gave her a look that could cut glass. "Suit yourself." As he left, he kicked the bed one last time.

His departure bought her a few more minutes of moping around, before her mentor decided to take care of the problem herself. Three harsh knocks on the door, followed by "I'm coming in!" and Devara opened the door with a frustrated flourish.

"Time to get a move on," she said, flinging the curtains wide and letting in an onslaught of intense morning light.

With a groan of displeasure, Sinora pulled the covers up over her head. "Leave me alone."

Devara ripped the sheet away. "No. Get out of bed. You can't just give up and stay here all day."

"Really?" Sinora looked up at her mentor, expression unchanged. "You and Will gave up the moment you saw me and Armand. Even you don't have any hope." She paused, searching Devara's face for any sign of a response. "So why should I?"

"We haven't written you off," Devara said, and let out a deep sigh as she sat on the edge of the bed. "But you haven't given us much to work with. If you aren't willing to even train, what are we supposed to think?" She crossed her arms. "Will and I, we've seen a lot of tributes die. We do care, and we like to think that everyone has a chance, but realistically, some peoples' odds are much better than others. And by moping around, showing an utter lack of interest in everything, you're reinforcing my fear that your chances aren't good."

"You're supposed to help me regardless."

The mentor turned away. "It's not that we don't want to help you. Believe me, if we could bring everyone home, we would. But I'm tired of investing myself in tributes who always die." Rising to her feet, she added, "I'm not your mom. I can't make you do anything. But I'd really prefer that you train, at least a little bit. And preferably get a move on before launch."

When she was alone once more, Sinora rolled onto her back and scrutinized the ceiling. She really didn't want to go to the training center. Releasing a put-upon sigh, she rose from the bed and looked for some clothes, mentally preparing herself for the unavoidable schlep. It's not like she had anything better to do.

* * *

**Maelyn LeBreton, District Five**

* * *

The training center lay on the other side of an underground tunnel that ran below the street to an adjacent city block. Other tributes walked alongside her, some silent, some chatty, and some in between. Maelyn didn't have anything to say, so she said nothing, though that didn't stop some of the others from trying to engage her in conversation.

"What kind of training stations do you think they'll have?" Damian asked, nudging her shoulder. Despite her generally quiet nature, he hadn't given up on her. She didn't know whether she liked that or not.

"I'm sure some will involve medicine, weapons, survival training, and the like."

"What are you going to try first?"

"I don't know."

Damian waited for her to expound upon her response, and when she didn't, he floundered for words. When none came, he tried to talk to her a few more times, bringing up myriad other topics, but Maelyn didn't have much to say about any of them. When they reached the training center, he left her side, wearing an odd expression that she couldn't quite place.

She frowned to herself as she watched him go, hoping he didn't think any less of her. She understood the existence of social cues in much the same way a profoundly deaf person understood the existence of sound. She knew they were there, and she knew that other people saw them. Much to her frustration, though, their meaning always eluded her. Thus, Damian's sentiment remained a mystery.

After wandering around the training center, inspecting each stall and weighing her options, she chose the rope station. They were useful in any environment, of course. Unfortunately, it wasn't nearly so easy as it looked.

"Hun," the trainer said, directing his gaze at the rope hanging limply in Maelyn's hand, "it's not a snake. It ain't gonna bite you."

He didn't have the typical District Zero accent, and she wondered if he'd moved from Nine or Ten. Maelyn's eyebrows drew together in confusion. "Why would I think it's a snake?"

The trainer shrugged. "You're holding it all delicate-like. Anyways, that won't teach you anything. You gotta take charge, and commit to the action," he said, balling his hands into fists. "Elsewise, you ain't gonna learn the proper method."

As the trainer went into his diatribe about proper knot tying techniques, Maelyn looked across the table and noticed the girl from Nine, looking up every few seconds. She stared at the girl until they met each others' gaze. Nine offered a soft smile. Unlike many other expressions, Maelyn knew full well what that meant, and hastily returned the gesture.

"I don't feel like I'm really learning much," Nine said, setting the coil of rope down. "Do you?"

Ignoring the trainer, Maelyn nodded. "I don't feel like I'm learning much, either."

The trainer huffed and returned to his rope collection.

A few seconds of silence passed as the two girls stared at each other, neither entirely sure how to proceed.

Finally, Nine said, "Can I sit by you? Maybe we'll learn faster together."

Maelyn nodded, secretly very pleased that someone else had taken an interest in her. "That logic is sound."

The girl relocated, and in a quiet voice, said, "I'm Nynette."

"Maelyn," she replied, nodding once. "Nice to make your acquaintance."

* * *

**Tristan Vorassi, District Six**

* * *

The training center was huge, though the ceiling hung low, and with something like fifty people, tributes and trainers alike, milling around the room, it all felt rather claustrophobic. Tristan didn't like it.

Beside him, Ryder bounced up and down on her heels as she scanned the room for an interesting activity. He half-turned away and rolled his eyes. Her inability to stand still was starting to wear on his nerves.

"Maybe we could try the rope course?" he said, gesturing to the knotted tower. "That looks like-"

"The gauntlets!" Ryder cried, grabbing his hand and pulling him along. "Yeah, that looks like fun!"

Tristan hurried after her and pursed his lips. "Yeah. The gauntlets. Exactly what I was going to say."

Another tribute, the girl from Twelve, was already there, leaping across the platforms and deftly dodging the trainer's blows. She jumped over a padded club and landed on the balls of her feet, keeping her arms out to maintain balance, then sprinted across the remaining obstacles, too fast for the trainers to catch up. One of them held up a stopwatch and nodded in appreciation. "Thirty-six seconds. Not bad."

One of the trainers pointed at them. "You! District Six! You planning on running or just standing there?"

"We'll go!" Ryder cried, dragging Tristan with her before he had the chance to respond. "We're next."

The trainers directed them to the starting line, waited for the girl from Twelve to finish, and gave a countdown. "Three, two one - Go!"

Tristan got an early lead on Ryder, leaping between the platforms at nearly double the pace she did. Unfortunately, he was so focused on his footing that he didn't see the attack until it was too late. A club flew out of nowhere and smacked him on the side of the face, throwing him off-balance and into the crevice between two of the platforms. He pulled his arms to his sides to avoid getting his fingers crushed by the moving parts. A few platforms behind, he heard Ryder's unhindered laughter, and let his head thump to the floor. Of course she'd find pleasure in his misfortune.

She appeared above him, looked around to make sure no trainers were close enough to attack, and offered her hand. "Come on, up you go."

He accepted her offer and was surprised by the strength with which she pulled him up. Once on his feet, he waited for the platform to reach its lowest point, then climbed on. "Thanks."

"No worries," she said, then patted him on the shoulder and sprinted ahead.

He managed to avoid the trainers' other well-placed strikes, hopped the last few obstacles, and finished within a decent time limit. But Ryder still won, of course.

"Thirty eight seconds," the trainer said, nodding to Ryder. Looking at Tristan, he added, "And forty two for you. Not terrible, but it could do with some improvement."

Tristan nodded, fully aware of the resentment twisting in his gut. Everything he did was simply "not terrible", at least when it related to the Game. He'd trained for a short while back in Two, before his fathers' passing and his family's subsequent relocation to District Six, but nothing he'd learned back then mattered now, because he remembered exactly none of it. Then again, most of the other tributes hadn't trained, either. He'd overheard a few conversations, and knew that both from Four hadn't trained, and the boy from Two hadn't, either. All of the other Career district kids were a mystery, but even so, there wouldn't be a proper pack this year. Small victories, he supposed.

"Want to try again?" Ryder asked, still bouncing up and down despite the energy expended on the obstacle course.

Tristan nodded. He'd do better this time.

* * *

**Darian Kesslar, District Seven**

* * *

Darian liked to fight. Something about physical conflict made him happy, even when he lost, though winning was surely a bit nicer. He thought the heat of the moment kept things real, and the dark purple bruise around his left eye, the remnant of a schoolyard brawl four days earlier, testified to his love of violence.

Owen Blackwood, Darian's newest target, had no way of knowing this.

Whether through subconscious bravado or a sheer lack of wisdom, Darian had chosen to target the largest tribute in the entire room. The boy from Four had him outmatched by nearly six inches and twenty-five pounds, but that hardly gave the boy from Seven pause for consideration. It simply presented more of a challenge.

He walked up alongside the pair from Four as they readied themselves to climb the rope tower. "Mind if I join you?"

The girl didn't bother to acknowledge him, but the boy shrugged. "Go ahead."

The trainer nodded at him, and wrote something down on her tablet. "Alright, you three. It's a race to the top. If you fall, you're disqualified. Ready, set." She raised her hand, then sliced it down. "Go!"

Darian leaped at the ropes and clawed his way up, keeping an eye on his opponents. When Owen came close, he kicked the rope in Four's hand, ripping it from his grasp.

Owen slipped backward, scrambling for purchase in the empty air, and managed to hook his fingers around a clot of rope before he hit the floor. Craning his head toward the trainer, he said, "How is that not a violation?"

The woman shook her head with mild disappointment. "Anything goes in the arena. There are no rules of etiquette."

Swinging to the floor, Owen straightened his shirt and swore under his breath.

From the top of the tower, Dabria called, "What? Are you just going to let him mess with you like that?"

Darian saw his opportunity. He dropped to the floor, no longer having to feign interest in the rope course, and stuck his face close to Owen's. "Yeah. What are you going to do about it?"

"Nothing," Owen said, frowning with barely-concealed disgust and furrowing his brow. "It isn't worth it."

A flicker of anger licked up Darian's spine. "Oh?"

The trainer stepped closer, hand hovering over her radio, ready to call security at a moment's notice. A smile flashed across Darian's face, and he backed away. "Yeah, you're right. Not worth it." He spun on his heels, the corners of his mouth still turned up with the ghost of a smirk. He'd introduced a bit of conflict, with the added bonus of getting a read on the tributes from Four. Knowledge was power, after all.

Speaking of which, he spied a boy sitting at the tech station, probably from Three or Five. He looked younger than almost everyone else, and seemed to have a nice air about him. Probably a pansy. Darian wondered how much it would take to annoy this new target.

"Hey," he said, seating himself next to the boy. "Who are you?"

The kid smiled, undaunted by Darian's forwardness. He respected that. "Emery. Nice to meet you." Before Darian had the chance to introduce himself, the kid said, "You're the guy from District Seven, right? Darian Kesslar?"

That the kid already knew not only his name, but his district too, caught Darian a little off-guard. "That's me." He gestured to the screen. "Mind if I watch?"

Emery shook his head. "Nope." He refocused on his work, eyes fixed on the cursor as it navigated the system's internal coding. Darian had no idea what the little green glyphs meant, but whatever the kid was doing, apparently he was doing it well.

"Good job," the trainer said. "You've successfully breached the firewall. Now retrieve the critical information, designated by the red text, and open the switch."

Emery clicked and typed some more, completely absorbed in the task at hand. A line of text started flashing at the top of the screen, and the boy let out a harsh sigh, fingers flying across the board. "No, no. No. I'm going to win." A few seconds later, he cheered and pointed at the screen. "Beat that!"

Two tiny mechanical latches next to the computer snapped open in unison, and a piece of red paper fluttered to the tabletop. _Good job_, it read.

Darian leaned forward and draped his arm across Emery's shoulder. Smart and capable definitely made up for being a pansy. "I have no idea what you just did, but you're obviously not an idiot." He turned to face the kid, and his mouth thinned into something that vaguely resembled a smile, carrying the bare minimum of warmth. "I think we should be allies." He spoke in such a way that implied it was in the other boy's best interest to agree.

"Okay," Emery said, more than a little unsure. "I'm open to the idea."

"Excellent." Darian squeezed Emery's shoulder. "We're going to be the best of allies."

* * *

**Dabria Laine, District Four**

* * *

Her district partner was useless, that much she knew. After the little incident with Darian, Owen had demonstrated that he couldn't handle conflict, or at least refused to engage in it even when he had the obvious upper hand. She couldn't waste her time with someone as weak as that. In the arena, she'd need an ally who would take any advantage they could, and especially someone who could fend for themselves. Otherwise, they weren't worth it.

So she left Owen to his own non-confrontational devices and set off to work on her skills, and maybe, if she was lucky, scope out another alliance.

The girl from Four picked up a crossbow and examined it, pretending she knew what she was doing. She'd actually dealt with one a few times before, but never extensively. Her family couldn't afford the cost of training, and the Career lifestyle had never appealed to her, anyways. Too bad. She wouldn't have minded some prior training now, but hindsight was 20/20.

A few other people milled around the weapons stations, the closest being the girl from Zero. She fumbled around with some throwing knives, obviously out of her element, and though Dabria wasn't really in a position to judge, she did it anyways.

Charne threw five projectiles at the target, and exactly two made contact, the rest clunking against the colored rings and clattering to the floor. In response, Dabria aimed at her own bulls-eye, and fired five arrows. Four hit the board, and one even hit the second ring from the center.

Lowering the weapon, she threw a wide grin at Charne. _See_, it said. _I'm better than you._

"I'd be good, too," said the girl from Zero, walking over to retrieve the knives, "if I came from a Career district."

"Excuse you," Dabria said, narrowing her eyes. "I'm not a Career." Flipping her hair over her shoulder, she added, "I'm just naturally talented."

"More like you're full of shit. Beginners' luck."

"Even if it was - which it's not - I'm still better than you."

"Best two out of three."

Dabria nodded, and set the target in her sights. "You're on."

Again, four of her arrows struck home, but this time, Charne managed three, as well. She was getting better. Cocking her head and pressing her tongue against the back of her teeth, the girl from Zero asked, "Three out of five?"

Both agreed, each ready to outperform the other. They assumed powerful stances, focusing on the center of their respective targets. Dabria exhaled and steadied her aim. The third and fourth times, Charne won by a margin of one, prompting Dabria to raise an eyebrow. Maybe the rich girl was better than she let on. The fifth time, they tied with five strikes each.

"You aren't half-bad," Dabria said, trying to keep the respect in her voice to a minimum. "For a Zero, at least."

Twirling a strand of hair around her finger, Charne smirked and conceded a nod. "You aren't too awful, yourself."

Letting one last arrow fly, Dabria surprised herself by hitting the edge of the bulls-eye, though she acted as if she'd planned it all along. "Still better than you, though."

"We'll see about that." Drawing back her arm, she paused, calculated, and sent her knife into the third ring from center. She frowned. It wasn't the bulls-eye, so by default, she had lost. Even so, Dabria couldn't help being impressed.

"Have you trained at all before with throwing knives?"

Charne set the rest down and shook her hand in a noncommittal gesture. "Some. Only a couple times, mostly for fun. Party trick, you know?" She sneered. "It's the only weapon here I've ever actually used. Never thought it would actually come in handy, yet here we are."

With a cold smile, Dabria said, "Well, that makes two of us." Gesturing at the target with the crossbow, she asked, "Perhaps we could keep training together? I'm sure the... _competition_ will do us some good."

"You're on," Charne said. "As long as you're content with losing."

* * *

**Medea Torell, District Two**

* * *

Medea drew a breath, and forced it between her gritted teeth. She needed to calm down, focus, and relax. The trainers were watching, and when it came time for the arena, everyone else in Panem would be watching, too. She had to be strong.

Two swings of the sword, two red gashes on the dummy.

A trainer whistled. "At least someone around here knows what they're doing. Good to see you've got some experience!"

Medea nodded in thanks, even though she knew that her technique needed improvement. The cuts were shallow, and where she'd hit, they wouldn't do anything more than cause a painful inconvenience to whatever unlucky tribute received them. Her aim needed to be a bit higher, a bit deeper, and a bit further toward the tribute's center of mass. In fact, if she angled the blade just right, she could slip between the ribs and hit the heart.

In one fluid motion, she did just that, and the same trainer clapped. "Excellent."

She sighed. When she was younger, she'd briefly considered the idea of volunteering, before casting it aside in favor of simply training for fun. Volunteers were brave, surely, but they were rather stupid, too. Even as a twelve-year-old, she knew that the potential payout wasn't worth the price, and yet there were people back in Two who would gladly kill to take her place in the arena. Unfortunately, they could not, and she was stuck with the role.

Making things worse was everyone else's lack of training. If Tullus and the tributes from One and Four had been trained, at least she would have had a predetermined alliance. No matter how precarious a membership the Pack was, at least they knew who their teammates would be.

A quick glance around the room revealed a number of budding alliances: the girls from Zero and Four, the girls from Five and Nine, the boys from Three and Seven, the pairs from Six and One , and a few others here and there. Medea felt left-out. She forced down a surge of panic. Just because people were teaming up now didn't mean she would be all alone later on. There were always some loners here and there, right? She could just ask one of them. And if she had to, she could join a preexisting alliance.

The anxiety started to subside. Yes, that's what she would do. Everything would be okay.

In fact, she'd taken note of a lot of the other talented tributes who would make good candidates for an alliance. The boys from Three, Four, and Six seemed especially competent, as did the girls from Four, Eight, and Thirteen. She could approach any one of them and strike up a conversation, if only she could dredge up the confidence. Social interaction made her nervous, and since so much was riding on her decision, it made the anxiety that much worse. If she picked the wrong person, it could get her killed, and like most normal fifteen-year-olds, she had no interest in dying quite yet.

She heaved a sigh and squeezed her eyes shut, ignoring her fears and doubts. No, she would be brave. She had skills to offer, not the least of which being her talent with weapons. If she could find someone with survival skills, they could make a formidable team.

She would ask someone else to ally with her.

...Tomorrow. Probably.

Once she'd had some time to think it over.

* * *

**Emery Sobel, District Three**

* * *

He and Darian were among the first to leave for dinner, and for their laziness, they were rewarded with a nearly empty mess hall. Only the girls from District Five and Nine were present, and they'd seated themselves all the way across the room. It felt rather odd to Emery, who had spent the greater majority of his life living in overdeveloped, space-strapped neighborhoods. In fact, the entirety of District Zero felt odd, and not just because a lot of people here looked forward to watching him die. Everything was big and shiny and expensive, and their use of floor space was very, very inefficient. The people back in Three would have probably had a cow if they knew how much space went to waste here.

Even the food was over-the-top. Expensive drinks, marbled cuts of choice meat, fresh fruits and vegetables that he barely recognized, and all manner of desserts and pastries - all of it was overwhelming. He loved the variety.

He piled his plate high with a bit of everything, admiring the craftsmanship that went into each dish. Maybe he could learn a thing or two from the chefs in Zero.

"Couldn't make up your mind?" Darian asked, eyes set on Emery's overcrowded plate.

Emery shrugged. "Not exactly. I just wanted to try a bit of everything. Maybe their food can teach me something. They're obviously very talented."

Darian rolled his eyes. Through a full mouth, he asked, "So you cook, huh? Programming and cooking. Any other extraordinary talents I should know of?"

"Well, I like to knit."

Darian froze mid-chew. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Uh. No?" Emery shook his head. "Why would I be?"

Leaning on his elbows, Darian picked at a bit of food in his teeth. "Nothing, Emery. Nothing at all." He raised his eyebrows and said, seemingly to himself, though Emery knew better, "You can still stab someone with a knitting needle, so I guess it's semi-useful."

Ignoring the jab, Emery watched another group of tributes enter the mess hall, talking fast and laughing a bit too loud. No one actually wanted to be here. He spotted Margery, and turned to his ally. "Do we want to invite her to join us?"

Darian turned around to look, spotted his district partner, and shook his head. "Hell no. She's too soft."

"Soft?"

"Yeah. Too nice, not enough fight."

Emery's eyebrows knit together. He didn't necessarily consider himself weak, but he probably could have been deemed soft. Definitely nice. If his ally didn't like that, maybe he would abandon him in search someone else. "And I'm _not_ nice?"

Darian gave him an evaluative glare. "No, you are. But you also know a lot, and that makes up for it."

"How do you know that Margery doesn't have some secretly useful knowledge? Maybe she could save us in the arena!"

"Gee, I don't know, Emery. In fact, why don't you ask Polly to join? I'm sure she'd love the invitation."

Emery considered this for a moment. "Sure. I don't see why not."

Darian sighed. "Okay, maybe that wasn't the best example. But if we plan on living longer than two seconds in the arena, we need to be selective about our allies. People like Margery... we just don't have the time or the resources to handle those sorts of people. Let her ally with whoever. She'll find someone else."

With a concessionary nod, Emery crossed his arms and leaned them on the table. Darian's quick leaps of judgment were unfounded, but he saw the logic behind those judgments, even if he didn't like it. They had to be selective.

Growing uncomfortable in the tense silence, he gestured to the fading ring of purple around Darian's eye and asked, "So, how did you get that?"

The boy from Seven flashed a quick grin. "I picked a fight with someone who had nothing against cheap shots. Then again, neither do I." Running his fingers along the healing bruise, he added, "Nestor says that the prep team will be able to get rid of it before the Game starts."

"Oh, good," Emery said, nudging some of the food around his plate. After all, the last thing he'd want is for his ally to look beat-up before the killing began.

* * *

**Ace Wilder, District Twelve**

* * *

The tributes from Twelve were the last people in the training center, aside from the trainers themselves. Adara was off accomplishing some impressive feat, probably, while Ace was still stuck at the same station he'd chosen that morning. None of the information had really sunken in. Anxiety, probably.

"No," the trainer said, her voice wearing thin. "You cannot simply drink whatever water is available."

"But what if it looks clean?"

"There could be microbes!" she cried, throwing her hands up into the air. "The gamemakers probably won't sterilize the water supply, unless it comes from a faucet or other conventionally reliable source. And even then, maybe they'll make it toxic just to pick off the unwary, like yourself!" She heaved a frustrated sigh. "I swear, we've gone over this at least three times now."

Ace looked down at his hands. "Sorry, okay? I'm trying as best I can."

The trainer relaxed a bit. "I know. You need to try harder, though. You won't have me as a resource in the arena. In fact, you'll only have yourself, and whatever allies you find, though you spent all of today at my station, so you didn't make much progress in that department, either."

He frowned. "I didn't, did I?" He turned to his district partner, still messing around at one of the weapons stations. Throughout the day, he'd noticed her doing a lot of different things, all with the same determined scowl on her face. She was smart, definitely the kind of person he wanted by his side. They were both from District Twelve, after all, so they already had some sense of kinship, even if she hadn't really spoken to him on the train. "Maybe she'd like to ally?"

Following his line of sight, the trainer shrugged. "There's no harm in asking, is there?"

Ace brightened. "No, there isn't." Turning to the woman, he said, "Thanks!" He hurried to Adara, and caught her just as she set the last weapon down.

"Hey," he said.

She looked up, and gave him a brief smile. "Oh. Hi, Ace. Sorry, I was just leaving." She thanked the trainer and set off toward the exit.

"That's okay," he said, keeping pace with her. "I am, too. I was starting to get hungry." Looking down the hallway, he said, "Do you think they're still serving dinner?"

Adara gave a slow nod. "Probably."

He hesitated. "Would you like to go together?"

"No thanks," she said, perhaps a bit too quickly. "I had a big lunch, so I think I'm going to skip dinner."

"Oh." Ace paused, trying to catch his spirits before they fell too far. Adara kept walking, and he called after her before she could disappear into the elevator. "Wait!" She paused, albeit reluctantly, and he slipped into the gilded box alongside her. "Do you want to be allies?"

Her face contorted with regret as she repeatedly punched the button for the eighth floor. As the doors slid shut and they began to rapidly ascend, she crossed her arms. "Look, Ace. I'm sorry, but I don't think an alliance would be the best idea."

"Why not?" he asked, apprehension curdling into anger. "We're district partners!"

She let out a delicate sigh. The doors opened, and she strode out, Ace closely in tow. "That doesn't automatically make us allies. I just don't want to, okay? I'm sure someone else will-"

Her words were cut off by the shattering of glass. She whipped around, and found Ace staring at a spot on the wall where he'd thrown a full vase. Flowers and pottery fragments littered the floor, and a wide swathe of carpet was soaked through and through. Adara just stared.

The door to their room opened, and Adaline Tannhauser stuck her head out. "What was that?"

"He broke a vase because I told him I didn't want to ally," Adara said, backing into the room, never taking her eyes off of her district partner. "Kinda proving my point."

Ace tried to squelch the temptation to throw something else. "I'm sorry, what you said just... It made me mad, okay?"

Adaline rolled her eyes. "Adara, go to your room or something." Turning back to her charge, she beckoned him inside and said, "You and I need to have a talk."

* * *

**Alright, almost halfway through the pre-game stuff. As you can see, some alliances are already starting to form. Any particular alliances you expect, or want to happen?**

**4 tributes haven't been seen yet, and that was intentional. It's just the way the chapter POV math worked out, so sorry if you haven't seen your tribute yet! They'll show their lovely faces in the next chapter.  
**

**Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think!**


	7. Toleration

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Danique Vittori, District One**

* * *

The moment they had set foot in the training center the day before, Danique's spirits had fallen. Despite the lack of volunteers, most of the other tributes looked fit, competent, or otherwise intimidating. Today, everyone seemed just as dangerous, if not more so than they had yesterday. Save a select few, it looked like the competition would be pretty rough. She had no idea how she was going so stand out among them during the training sessions, or how she would attract sponsors in the arena. It all seemed so hopeless.

Dozens of hostile eyes followed them around the room as they walked from station to station. Danique felt them like cold knives pressing against her skin, judging and expectant. But she had nothing to offer. The other tributes saw a weak, run-of-the-mill rich girl, and honestly, that's all she was.

Florian nudged her slumped shoulders. "Relax, will you? You look like your puppy just died, and it's scaring everyone away."

"Sorry," she said, lacking both the energy and motivation to dispute his claim.

His expression softened. "I'm just kidding, Danique." He scanned the room, and nodded toward the weapons station, where a few other tributes were trying their hand at swords and spears. "I'll go see about other allies. Stop by if you need me." He patted her shoulder before he left. "Really, though. Lighten up."

And with that, he headed off, leaving Danique to her brooding. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, resenting her district partner for being so flippant. He was right, though, which made her resent him even more. Rolling a strand of hair between her fingers, she raised the corners of her mouth, trying a lighter expression on for size, and finding that it didn't quite fit.

"You have a nice smile," someone said.

She looked over and saw the boy from Five staring at her from the nearest training station. First aid, or something like that. They made eye contact, and his mouth flashed with a nanosecond grin.

"Thanks," she replied, not entirely sure how to proceed. She hadn't really paid much attention to him yesterday, and had simply filed him away under 'probably dangerous', like most everyone else here. The more she thought about it, though, the less sure she was about that assessment. He hadn't done anything to earn such a judgment, at least not that she'd seen. Still, better safe than sorry.

He pointed toward the camouflage station. "I saw you there yesterday. I'd have never thought to use torn rope fibers in place of dead vegetation." Turning back to the bandages in his hand, he added, "Pretty clever of you."

An unfamiliar embarrassment twisted in Danique's gut. She hadn't thought anyone would notice. She was too used to everyone looking past her and focusing on her older sister. Her crutch. Her shield. For her entire life, Riella had received what Danique craved, yet feared, taking center-stage and diverting everyone's attention from the younger, less interesting sister who always stood just behind the curtain. Protecting her little sister from their prying eyes, stealing the spotlight for herself.

But Riella wasn't here, and for maybe the first time ever, someone had noticed Danique instead. He'd even complimented her, too. Twice.

"I'm sorry," Danique said, curiosity overcoming her nerves. She cautiously taking the seat next to him. "I don't think I ever caught your name."

"Damian Ridge," he said, holding out his hand. "Nice to make your acquaintance."

Danique returned the gesture. "Likewise."

On the table lay a medical dummy, gravely "injured" in multiple places, indicated by gashes in the gelatinous flesh that overflowed with red, non-stick goop meant to represent blood. Damian had wrapped most of the injuries with gauze, and stitched the deepest two together with a needle and thread. Crude, but effective.

"That's pretty impressive," Danique said, gesturing to his stitch work. In reality, she had no idea whether his work was impressive or not. She just wanted to keep the conversation going.

He smirked. "Being a fairly proficient bullshitter myself, I can safely say that you are full of it." Setting the gauze down, he offered her another grin. "But I appreciate the sentiment."

She felt herself blush. Caught red-handed. "Well, it still looks like good work."

With a kind nod, he said, "If you say so."

* * *

**Tullus Marl, District Two**

* * *

Under the supervision of two trainers, the girl from Twelve and the boy from Seven attacked each other without hesitation, without mercy, hitting hard enough to draw blood. The girl cried out in pain, and Tullus looked away. A dark thread of memory went taut in the back of his mind, drawing the image of another crying girl in another time and place, but he forced it away. He didn't want to remember. That part of his life was over.

Instead, he wandered across the center, and eventually found himself in front of the holographic sparring chamber. A lone girl stood in the center of the enclosed room, thin hands clutching a hammer close to her chest, and she didn't hesitate to use it against the onslaught of orange-cubed virtual enemies. The range of the hammer required the targets to come a little too close for comfort, though, and though she managed to take four out, she hesitated for a split-second on the fifth, giving it the opportunity to land a critical strike on her neck. The lights flashed, and the enemy figures disappeared.

"Not too awful," the trainer said, rubbing her chin, deep in thought. "But definitely could do with some improvement."

With a brief nod, the girl set the hammer down, chest expanding and contracting with heavy breaths. She obviously wasn't accustomed to such exertion, though she'd done well in spite of that. Of all the tributes here, she seemed like one of the more hopeful choices, and considering that he hadn't seen her with anyone else in the past day and a half, he wouldn't be imposing on a preexisting alliance. No harm in asking, right?

"Hey," he said. She turned with a start, and he instinctively help up his hands, showing her that he meant no harm. "Uh, hi. I'm Tullus."

The girl relaxed, but only by a fraction. "Polly."

Tullus let his arms fall back to his sides as the tension dissipated. "A hammer, huh?"

She examined it, and gave him a brief nod, her shoulders not quite as stiff as before. "Yeah." Glancing at the weapons rack, which displayed everything from swords to spears to obscure and ridiculous things like chakrams, she said, "It's the only thing I really recognized."

Tullus knew nearly all of them, but kept that to himself. Gesturing to the patch on her shoulder that designated her district, he instead said, "That isn't surprising, considering you're from Three."

"Oh, and because you're from Two, you know what all of these things do, right?" She said it with a touch of reproach, but her expression was warm nonetheless.

"Something like that."

"What about you?" the trainer cut in. "Are you here to use the holo-chamber?"

Fear crept along the fringe of Tullus's mind. He'd didn't know if he could bring himself to do it. He'd only come here to talk to Polly, and the violence... he didn't want to be that person anymore. And if he started again, he didn't know where he would stop, or if he even _could_ stop.

But these were the Hunger Games. He would have to hurt people, maybe even kill them, if he planned on having even the slightest chance of going home. He'd just have to be stronger than he had been before. Know his own limits, know when to stop. He could do it. He had to.

"Sure," he said, picking a machete off of the rack, sounding more confident than he felt. "I'm already here, so might as well, right?"

The trainer nodded, and ushered him into the chamber. He hoped she didn't see the waver in his smile, or the hesitation in his stride.

The first couple of holograms were easy enough. They rushed at him head-on, leaving themselves open to attack. He took advantage of their exposed chests, and with each killing blow, the figures dissolved into orange cubes. The third tried to sneak up from behind, but he whipped around and sliced its neck open. He imagined the pain such a strike would inflict, realized what he was doing, and pushed the thought away. But he already felt himself starting to cascade. He _wanted_ to hurt them. See someone suffer.

The next three opponents passed in a blur, "dying" before Tullus's mind could catch up with the attacks he readily doled out. Four more rushed him, and he took them on one by one, feinting and dodging, twisting away and slashing at their necks and faces. Each one fell without so much as touching him. They weren't real, though. Not human. No nerve endings. They felt nothing.

Silence fell upon the chamber, and the lights flashed overhead. The trainer pointed at him and waved him out.

"Good job," she said. "Took care of all ten targets in forty seconds."

Polly appeared beside him, obviously impressed by his performance. "That was pretty cool."

Tullus nodded in thanks, and gently replaced the machete on the rack. He had done it. He was okay.

For now.

* * *

**Benjamin Stavros, District Ten**

* * *

The day started off bright and early with coffee and artificial sunlight, since the real sky outside was overcast and gloomy. By the time their mentors had dragged themselves out of bed, Benjamin and Aviana were ready and raring to go.

As they entered the elevator side-by-side, Benjamin reluctantly asked, "So, got any ideas for allies yet?"

"Maybe. Why?"

The elevator doors opened with a pleasant ding, and they headed down the hallway, following the arrows to the tunnel that led to the training center. A few other tributes walked alongside them, like the pair from Seven and the boy from Thirteen, though most were probably still in their rooms, getting ready to face the day.

He drew a heavy sigh. "I was wondering… if you'd be interested in an alliance? With me?"

He tried to make himself sound serous, but it was entirely his mentor's idea. He'd discussed it with Fae the day before, and though he'd agreed to ask Aviana, he had no intention of actually going through with it. Still, he would feel bad if he didn't at least humor his mentor.

"Oh please," Aviana said, crinkling her nose. "You're too much of a fuddy-duddy. Too serious."

Although he was relieved that she agreed with him, he took issue with her reasoning. "I am not 'too serious'. I'm just aware of my situation." He paused, and amended with, "Our situation, actually. If you don't prepare for the worst, it'll catch you off-guard. That's not me being a fuddy-duddy, that's me being prepared."

She gave him a 'no-duh' expression. "Call it what you want, but that's exactly what I'm talking about. You focus on the negative." She rested her hand on his shoulder with mock sympathy. "Just because I don't want to be your ally doesn't mean we can't still be friends."

He swatted her hand away with unnecessary force, though a smile betrayed his amusement. "Well, you're too touchy-feely for me, anyways."

"What, like this?" Before he realized what she was doing, she reached down and gave his left butt cheek a light squeeze and cackled when he jumped in surprise.

"I know it's a new concept to you," he said, a fleeting heat coloring his face, "but there's this thing called personal space. You should try it sometime."

"Or maybe I should just find someone with lower standards." She gnawed on a fingernail, and he noted her line of sight, resting firmly on the girls from Four and Zero. He'd noticed her watching them the day before, too.

Lower standards, indeed.

Inclining his head toward the girls, he raised an eyebrow at his district partner. "I'm sure they'll love you."

A trace of uncharacteristic fear shone in her stooping shoulders and drawn eyebrows. "You think so?"

Benjamin nodded. "Of course. Just because you completely ignore social norms for your own amusement doesn't mean you aren't lovable."

She planted a kiss on his cheek. "You're such a sweetheart." With a wink and a winning smile, she pranced away, hair swinging with the movement.

Benjamin rolled his eyes, unable to suppress a grin. She was a nice girl. Totally lacking in respect for personal boundaries, but nice nonetheless. Shame she had to get wrapped up in a crappy situation like the Hunger Games. Shame any of them did, really. He wanted to wish her well, but he wanted to win, too.

In the meantime, he had to find an alliance of his own. A quick sweep of the room revealed a number of possibilities. He had his eye set in particular on the girl from Seven. He'd observed a number of people the day before, and she seemed the nicest and one of the most sane, whilst also showing a solid range of survival skills and a tendency toward peacemaking.

_No point in waiting_, he thought, and headed over to introduce himself.

* * *

**Aviana Recine, District Ten**

* * *

The two girls looked up, eyes narrowed and lips curled into mean smirks. They'd been having another competition to see who was more accurate with their long-range weapons. It looked like Dabria was winning, but only by a few points.

"Hi," Aviana said, seating herself on the ledge of the weapons counter, ignoring a nasty glare from the trainer.

Charne set her knives down. "And you are...?"

"Aviana Recine." She bobbed her head. "Nice to meet you."

"You say that now," Dabria drawled. She leveled the crossbow with the target, and let an arrow fly. It struck the line between the bulls-eye an the first ring. Still a point, apparently, because she pumped her arm and gave Charne a smug grin. "Five."

"Yeah, whatever." Charne rolled her eyes and returned her attention to Aviana. "So, what do you want?"

"I wanted to know if you're open to more allies," she said, swinging her legs back and forth. "You both seem pretty cool, so I thought, why not ask?"

With a cold, steely chuckle, Charne cocked her head to the side. "And what exactly do you have to offer? Can you hit things? Swing a sword? Heal people?" She put on a false half-smile, imitating Aviana's attempt to keep a neutral expression. "Can you do _anything_?"

Zero's cruel tone didn't phase Aviana. She'd dealt with plenty of people like that before, and she wasn't about to let a potential alliance slip through her fingers because one of the tributes needed an attitude adjustment. "Combat-wise, no, not really. But how hard is it to swing a sword, really?" She stared Charne straight in the eye, not afraid of the other girls' glacial blue glare. "But I do know a bit about medicine and plant identification. And I can tie ropes like no ones' business." She finished with a wink.

"Kinky," Charne deadpanned. She crossed her arms, pooching her lips as she decided what to do about the girl from Ten. "And that's all you can do?"

"Well, I could give you an exhaustive list, but we'd probably be here for a while. Don't forget that I'm perfectly capable of learning things, too."

"And a smartass, to boot." With a melodramatic sigh, Charne spared a knowing glance toward Dabria. "Aren't we lucky?"

"Apparently so." The girl from Four set her crossbow down and sauntered over, placing a hand on either side of Aviana's legs, and leaned in close until their noses were almost touching, breathing each others' air. "There's this big question mark hovering above your head right now, and I'm not much in the mood for mysteries. So tell me: why should we trust you with our lives? Better yet, why would you trust _us_ with _your_ life?"

Aviana narrowed her eyes and leaned a few millimeters forward, refusing to let this girl intimidate her. She didn't let any hint of vitriol enter her voice. "I don't know. Why does anyone trust anyone? I think the potential payoff is worth the risk. And if it's not, I'll deal with the consequences." She allowed herself a small, ever-so-slightly self-satisfied grin. "Besides, considering it's just you two, I think I can handle myself."

For a brief moment, she thought Dabria might hit her, but the older girl's poker face broke into something warmer, almost happy. "What you lack in brain cells, you make up for in confidence. At least you have something going for you, I guess." She pushed off of the table, arms swinging in front of her, and turned back to Charne. "Well? What do you say?"

At this point, Zero seemed more amused than anything. "We can at least give her a chance, like the warranty period for a sassy vacuum cleaner with no social boundaries and an overinflated sense of self."

"Give me a break," Dabria said, shouldering past her ally. "You're one to talk. You're like a case study in teenage narcissism."

As her new allies argued over the finer points of armchair psychology, Aviana smiled. At the very least, her time in the arena would certainly be interesting.

* * *

**Evelyn Arellis, District Eight**

* * *

The girl from Two hovered at the plant identification station, not really paying attention to her work, and instead stealing glances at Evelyn every ten seconds. It was starting to irritate her. Either the girl would scrape up the courage, or she would give up and leave, but at least the decision would be made.

Evelyn glared across the table until their eyes locked. The girl from Two blinked, but didn't look away. Evelyn respected that.

"Medea, right?"

"Correct," said the girl from two.

"Well Medea, you've been staring at me for the past fifteen minutes, and it's making me uncomfortable." Evelyn narrowed her eyes. "Either do something or go away."

Medea blinked again, unfazed, and nodded. "You seem like one of the more put-together tributes around here. I don't have any allies yes, and as far as I can tell, you don't have any allies, either. I figured you'd be the most logical choice." She cocked her head to the side. "Unless you don't want an ally, in which case I'd be happy to leave you alone."

After spending the last few years fending for herself, Evelyn had come to realize that most people only cared about themselves. Even her supposed parents, paragons of virtue that they were, had abandoned her shortly after birth, handing off their responsibility to some stranger who could have sold her into child slavery for all they'd known. But they'd done it all the same, and she couldn't change the past. In any case, it had shaped her into the person she was today, and in a very small respect, she thanked them for that.

Much like her parents, Medea, and all of the other tributes here for that matter, were only looking out for themselves. Even Evelyn.

_Especially_ Evelyn.

Could she afford to trust another person in a game where there could only be one survivor? Someone who had formal training? Someone who could kill her without much trouble?

She'd trusted Terryn enough to accept the girl into her home, and as much as she hated to admit it, she cared about her friend. To date, Terryn was the only person who'd even glimpsed the real Evelyn, the desperate girl who sunk her teeth into every glimmer of hope like a half-starved dog, who was tired of putting on an impassive, bitchy front day in and day out, because it was the only way to keep all of those selfish people who only helped themselves from stepping all over her. Lucky for Evelyn, Terryn had still chosen to stand by her, even though she knew the truth.

This new girl, Medea, was nothing like Terryn. And even if she was, Evelyn couldn't let herself become too attached. The circumstances were entirely different. She couldn't let herself form another bond, because in the scheme of things, such sentimentality would only put her in danger. She'd have to be prepared to do anything for survival, personal preferences be damned. If they did agree to ally, it would be a working relationship only. Evelyn had already lost so many parts of herself to the machine of District Eight and to the maw of Panem as a whole, that she didn't know how much more she could sacrifice. So, she wouldn't. Not if she could help it.

Even from a purely objective standpoint, Medea was a risk. A potentially helpful person in the long-run, but a risk nonetheless, especially since she would be one of the only formally trained tributes in the arena. Then again, it would be nice to have that kind of skill set on her side.

Evelyn weighed the possibilities as the girl from Two looked on. Medea could kill her. Medea also had training and knowledge, which would increase Evelyn's own chance of survival. But she could also become an emotional liability if Evelyn wasn't careful. Was she worth the risk?

"Okay," Evelyn finally said. "I'll be your ally, but on one condition. We aren't friends, okay?"

"So we're survival buddies, then?"

Evelyn nearly gagged at the use of such a squishy buzzword, but forced herself to nod. "Slightly more formal than that, but yeah, you get the gist."

"I can live with that," Medea said, relieved.

_Or maybe you won't_, Evelyn thought.

"Good," she said, and nodded at the plants laid before them. "Let's get to work."

* * *

**Brand Coil, District Thirteen**

* * *

The foam-padded sparring pole struck her on the side of the head, knocking her off-balance, and her teeth involuntarily clamped down on her lip. Arms flailing, she regained her footing as a trickle of blood seeped down her chin. She winced and she wiped it away.

Owen's eyes widened at the damage he'd inflicted, and he took a tentative step back. "I, uh." He paused, searching for an apology. "I didn't mean to do that."

Brand waved him away. "It's fine, really." The terseness of her voice made it obvious that it really wasn't fine, and she knew it. She also knew that it really had been an accident. Holding onto the bitterness had never done her any good in the past, and she couldn't afford to mess up another relationship this early-on, particularly with someone who had made the effort to approach her in the first place.

With a heavy sigh, she lowered her shoulders and offered him a small smile. To her surprise, she actually meant it. "You just surprised me, is all."

He relaxed by a fraction. "Yeah. Sorry."

They readied themselves for another match, but Brand noticed the boy from Zero lingering at the periphery of the sparring mat, thumbs hooked in his pockets and a faint smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. She didn't know how long he'd been standing there, but she found his smug face immediately annoying. In fact, everything about him seemed very punchable.

"What are you looking at?" she demanded, stepping back from Owen before he could land another unlucky hit. Her ally paused and followed her line of sight, frowning when he saw the object of her scorn.

Enoch, apparently surprised that they'd noticed him, put on a sheepish expression. "Just watching." Sheepish or not, Brand didn't really trust him. She couldn't tell if he was being genuine, but she wasn't about to place her faith in anyone from Zero, especially not someone who would soon be in a position to kill her. District Zero had created this whole stupid Game in the first place. His people were the reason for the whole damn thing, as well as the suffering of countless families, friends, and especially tributes over the last century.

Of course, he was there for the same reason, but that was beside the point.

"Just watching, huh?" Owen cocked his head to the side, and raised an eyebrow at Brand before returning his gaze to Enoch. With the slightest hint of mockery, he said, "Some hands-on learning would probably do you more good than sitting on the sidelines." Owen stood nearly half of a foot taller than the already tall boy from Zero. Enoch instantly acknowledged this vital discrepancy in their heights, starting to shake his head and ready to back away from the provocation, until Owen said, "Unless you're scared."

It wasn't quite a taunt, more like a benign challenge, but those three words seemed to have a near-magical effect on Enoch Emeris. He stood a little straighter and squared his shoulders, mouth set into a hard half-smirk. He took one of the sparring sticks from the rack, and assumed a battle-ready stance. At first, Brand didn't understand the complete reversal in Enoch's behavior, and it took her a few seconds to fit the pieces of logic together into a coherent picture. When she did, she almost laughed, both at the simplicity of it all, and at Enoch's general demeanor. Of course! The peacock had to defend his ego.

The fight was short, but even so, it lasted much longer than Brand expected. Despite Owen's obvious advantage in terms of size and mass, Enoch managed to hold his own for a good thirty seconds, striking at vulnerable areas like the chest, neck, and stomach. He even landed a hit on Owen's face before the larger boy forced him off of the mat with one powerful blow.

"Not bad," Owen said, genuinely impressed. "For a guy from Zero, at least."

Enoch held a hand over his heart, still panting. "I'm touched." He walked back onto the mat, and assumed a fighting stance. "Round two?"

Even though she still only trusted him about as far as Owen could throw him, at the very least, Brand had to respect Enoch's persistence. Maybe she'd be able to put up with him, after all.

* * *

**Samson Galloway, District Nine Male**

* * *

People were pairing up left and right, yet he still hadn't found a single tribute to partner with. It was starting to get to him. Wasn't he alliance-worthy? He was able-bodied, strong, and definitely not dumb, which was more than could be said about a lot of the others who already boasted allies. Then again, he definitely wasn't _the_ strongest, or _the_ smartest. Most motivated, maybe, but that was hard to judge. Everyone here would fight for their life, to varying degrees of success, but they'd fight nonetheless.

He just had to find someone who was strong, but not quite as driven as he was. Allies or not, he still had to outlast them.

Of the remaining loners, only the guy from Eight seemed like he fit the bill. Strong, but not unmanageably so. Driven, but with a certain measure of weariness that made him seem rather burnt-out. Irritable, too.

He would do.

Samson took a seat at the rope station, not awkwardly far from the boy from Eight, but not inappropriately close, either. If Denim noticed, he didn't let on.

"Hi," Samson said, lacing his fingers together. "Interesting station, huh?" The boy didn't respond, so Samson continued. "Ropes are interesting. Start with weaker individual fibers, tie them together, and get something that's stronger than the sum of its parts. It's a nice metaphor, really. Reminds me of-"

"Why are you talking to me?"

Despite the standoffish tone, any communication was progress. Samson allowed himself a satisfied nod. "I just thought you looked like a good potential ally. Figured I'd try to get the ball rolling with a little small talk."

"I hate small talk," he said, tying the rope tighter to emphasize the word 'hate'. "And you don't know anything about me."

Samson raised his eyebrows. "Well, I know you don't have an ally."

"Maybe I joined someone in secret."

"Bullshit. You're alone, and you know it. But you don't have to be." Samson paused to gauge Denim's reaction. So far, so good. He seemed to have the other boy's reluctant, though undivided attention. "I think we should ally."

Denim set the rope down and lifted his gaze, suspicious eyes darting across Samson's face, searching for any sign of fraud. He found none, but didn't change his defensive posture. "Why me?"

With a shrug, Samson said, "Why _not_ you?"

"Alright," Denim said, almost smiling. "Why_ you_? What makes an alliance with you so attractive?"

"Well, it's nice to have someone who's got your back. Each of us has different skills, which we could use to help each other. And I won't stab you in the back."

Denim took a while to answer. When he did, his voice was level. Inscrutable. "Sounds reasonable. Don't get me wrong, though - I still don't trust you."

Raising his hands in submission, Samson said, "Totally understandable. I wouldn't trust a near-total stranger, either." He inclined his head. "But I think you'll come around."

Someone across the room cried out in pain as their sparring partner took a cheap shot. Even so, the two boys didn't break eye contact. If anything, their gazes intensified.

Denim returned his attention to the knot of rope on the counter. "We'll see about that."

* * *

**Margery Kappel, District Seven**

* * *

She watched from the sidelines as Benjamin beat the stuffing out of a few combat dummies, doing more damage with a staff than she thought possible. It had been a good idea to accept his invitation to ally. He was certainly one of the stronger kids here, and judging by the direct, out-of-the-blue way he'd approached her, probably one of the most confident, too. Maybe not the best thing, but she could work with it.

Benjamin's self-assurance crowded out the finer points of subtlety, but all things considered, Margery liked it. He knew what he wanted, and wouldn't waste anyone's time by beating around the bush.

In that way, he reminded her of Greyson.

She hung her head at the thought of her fiancé. He'd proposed only the month before, and now... now she was here. In the Hunger Games. Maybe she'd never see him again, and maybe he'd have to watch her die. She supposed that's what they got for tempting fate and making plans past the reaping. It wasn't fair, but then again, what was?

Anger flickered in her gut, but it sputtered out almost as quickly as it appeared. She and Greyson simply hadn't wanted the Games to dictate their personal lives. If they wanted to get engaged before their last reaping, they had every right to do so, and they had. She didn't regret their decision, even though it hurt to have such happiness snatched away, potentially forever, when it had been within her grasp.

No matter what, she had to get home. She had to be strong. For Grayson, for her family. For herself.

"You alright?" Benjamin said, breaking her from her thoughts. "I mean, other than being in the Hunger Games."

Margery forced herself to brighten. "I'm fine. Just thinking about home."

He crossed his arms and made a sound that was more of a scoff than a laugh. "Aren't we all?"

That was the problem. Margery knew that every person here, every tribute that she had to outlast, had homes and families and friends, just like her. What made her so special? Why did she deserve victory more than the rest of them?

_It's not about who deserves it_, she thought. _It's about who earns it._

And she had every intention of earning it. The details, however, were a bit fuzzier. She didn't quite know how she would get from point A to point Z, though she knew full well that it would involve a lot of pain, disappointment, and death. She wished it wouldn't. She willed it with every fiber of her being, but no amount of pleading with the universe would change anything. Whatever was in charge of their fates, it had allowed for the existence of the Hunger Games in the first place. Surely, it didn't care about the wishes of one insignificant girl.

Margery recoiled at the thought. Was she truly insignificant? Next-to-worthless?

To some cosmic entity, probably. But to herself? No. Definitely not.

Did that mean her self-preservation was worth the lives of the other tributes? Again, definitely not. Each one of them valued their existence just as much as she valued her own, and she valued their lives, too. Just as every good human being should. She knew that every tribute here had a universe of memories, thoughts, and emotions, and that every single one of them deserved to exist, to live.

That was the problem. She cared too much. She _empathized_ too much. It had never been a problem in the past, but right now, she wished she didn't, because she wanted to survive, but she also wanted to be able to live with herself afterward.

* * *

**Three weeks. Yeah. I know it's a long time, and I'm sorry. Right now, classes come first. That being said, finals are next week, and then it's spring break!**

**Now that we've seen everyone at least once, there's a poll on my profile asking for your 5 favorite tributes. Even if you don't have a tribute in Lockdown, I'd love to know your opinion!**

**Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think of the chapter!**


	8. Solidified

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Ryder Corinthus, District Six**

* * *

As Benjamin Stavros stared Tristan Vorassi down from the opposite end of the ring, Ryder could almost feel the resentment radiating from her district partner. It was mostly her fault he was in such a predicament. Of course, she hadn't really meant to challenge the boy from Ten and the girl from Seven, and she certainly hadn't meant to get Tristan involved.

Or maybe she had. Just a little. But it was mostly an accident.

She'd dragged Tristan to the melee ring, perhaps waiting to get paired with someone, perhaps simply in need of a new activity, and it just so happened that Benjamin and Margery turned up at the same time they did. The trainer had paired them with each other - Ryder with Margery, and Tristan with Benjamin. Ryder had won her match rather fast, since Margery seemed physically pained by the prospect of hurting other people, though she had landed a good hit on Ryder's jaw. It still kinda hurt.

Benjamin wasn't nearly so nice, as Tristan was finding out. Ryder did feel bad about it, though she was more amused than anything. That made her feel worse. Tristan was a strapping lad fully capable of taking down all but three of tributes in the room, and Benjamin fell firmly within the category of conquerable. Unfortunately, this did not mean that the fight would be easy.

Tristan ducked to avoid his fist, sidestepped, and slammed his shoulder into Benjamin's side, using the momentum to propel his opponent across the mat. Ten reeled, regained his balance, then came charging at Six, arms spread wide. Tristan _almost _avoided the attack.

"Your district partner is pretty good," Margery said, nursing the split lip that Ryder inflicted.

Ryder nodded. "Benjamin is pretty good, too. Not as good as Tristan, of course." She winked. "But still."

With a concessionary shrug, Margery said, "I can't really disagree with you."

The conversation lulled and they watched the fight progress. Benjamin was almost as good as Tristan. On impulse, Ryder asked Margery, "Do you have any other allies?"

"No." Seven sent her a sidelong stare. "Why do you ask?"

"You and Benjamin seem pretty cool." Rubbing her jaw, she added, "And both of you can hit pretty hard."

"Are you offering?"

"Only if your answer would be 'yes'".

As she spoke, Tristan followed Benjamin's punch, grabbed his arm, and used his shoulder as a fulcrum to pull Ten over his shoulder. Benjamin flipped around and hit the mat with a pained grunt. Tristan backed away, wiping a trail of blood from the corner of his mouth. In the course of the fight he'd apparently bit his tongue.

"Did you win?" Ryder asked, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. She wanted to get back in the ring and do something. Maybe Tristan could teach her how to throw people over her shoulder, too.

"I don't know." Tristan placed his foot on Benjamin's neck, not hard enough to actually hurt him, but enough to keep him from getting up. "Did I?"

Benjamin flinched with the contact, glaring up at Tristan with an expression sharp enough to cut steel. He probably didn't like losing, which Ryder could relate to, though she also hadn't just been floored by her district partner, so what did she know? It was a pretty humiliating defeat, she had to admit. The foot-on-neck thing wasn't helping.

"You win," he said. "Can I get up now?"

Tristan looked up, considering, if only to draw out his moment of victory. After a few seconds, he stepped back. "Good fight."

Ryder giggled. She hadn't ever heard the words "good" and "fight" used in the same sentence before, and the irony had struck her funny bone.

Pressing a paper towel pressed to his mouth, Tristan walked over and stood beside her, looking like he might kill the next person who so much as looked at him wrong. Disregarding the death glare, Ryder asked, "What do you think about allying with Margery and Benjamin?"

His eyes went wide and his arm fell to his side, fingers tensed around the bloody cloth. "What?"

"Think about it! What better way to show dominance than to absorb them into our alliance?"

He opened his mouth to object, but thought better of it. Leaning back, he stared at the opposite wall, mulling it over. After a moment, he raised his eyebrows and looked down at the cloth. "Alright. They're definitely strong enough." Cutting her a steely glare, he added, "But if they kill us, it's on you."

Unperturbed, Ryder turned to Margery. "Well? What do you say?"

The girl from Seven crossed her legs and leaned forward. "I'll have to ask Benjamin. He's probably already over it, anyways. As for me?" She smiled. "I'm in."

* * *

**Polly Brady, District Three**

* * *

She'd spent the last day trying to figure out her new ally, and so far, she didn't have much to show for it. Tullus was fairly proficient with a lot of weaponry, though he refused to say whether or not he'd trained beforehand. It wasn't ideal, but she only found it a little suspicious.

In truth, she needed his expertise with weapons. Even after two and a half days of practice, she only knew how to use a hammer, and to a much lesser extent machetes, as well, but only because Tullus had spent the time to teach her. He hadn't seemed comfortable with the idea when she brought it up, but he gave in after a bit of pestering.

Now, he was off learning about survival skills, which Polly had been sure to learn first. Whilst waiting for him, she wandered over to the rope course, surprised to find only one other person there. The boy from Thirteen watched her approach with wary interest.

"Hi," she said.

He shifted his weight and glanced anxiously at the trainer, then back at her. "Hello."

"Your name is Niko, right? My mentor told me about you."

Niko's eyes widened, apparently surprised that strangers were talking about him. "Really?"

"Well, she told me about everyone, but that included you, so yes."

"What did she say?"

"Just that your name is Niko, you're sixteen, and that you've got some hand-to-hand combat training. Not much else."

He sighed. "I guess my mentor and your mentor are friends, then?"

Polly thought it over. "Thermo isn't the most social person, but I'm sure he talks to the other mentors, even if it's just to keep in contact." When Niko didn't respond, she continued, "I wish he was nice enough to tell everyone else about my strengths, though. It's nice of your mentor to do that."

"Oren? Yeah, I guess he's alright."

Polly waited for him to say something else, but when he didn't, she said, "So, considering Thirteen doesn't have an academy, where did you get hand-to-hand combat training? Did a parent teach you?"

At the mention of his training, Niko shifted uncomfortably on his feet, refusing to make eye-contact. "I taught myself."

"How?"

"By fighting."

"In matches?"

"Yeah."

She pressed on, oblivious to his abashed demeanor. "Were you paid for it? Like a professional?"

"People placed bets," he said, so low that she had to lean a little closer to hear him properly. "If I won, I got money."

"Oh." It suddenly dawned on Polly that perhaps Niko's exploits had been less-than-legal. "_Oh_. That's different."

Niko nodded. "That's a nice way to put it."

She crinkled her nose, weighing the importance, or in this case the _non_-importance, of participating in an illegal club. If anything, that made him more appealing as a potential ally. "Do you have an alliance yet?"

"No," he responded, suspicious.

Well, she could fix that. "You should come say hello to my ally, Tullus. I bet he'd be happy to meet you."

Niko seemed hesitant, but she grabbed his hand and pulled him along. It wouldn't do to let such a useful person slip through her fingers. "Really, it'll only take a moment."

"Okay," he said, hurrying after her.

And with that, they set off for the boy from Two, the rope course forgotten.

* * *

**Nynette Saghas, District Nine**

* * *

Sinora hadn't quite joined their group. At least, Nynette couldn't really point to the exact time when she became their ally. Over the course of two days, she hung around them, keeping to the bare minimum in terms of interaction, but interacting nonetheless. And it sort of just happened.

Now, they were sitting at the fire station, which seemed to be the only place that held any interest for Sinora. As far as Nynette could tell, the newest addition had exactly two interests: sleeping and starting campfires. Apparently the latter came as a surprise, even to Sinora.

Nynette had been doing her utmost to refrain from annoying the new girl, at least not right off the bat. So far, she couldn't really tell what Sinora thought of her. The girl from Eleven didn't waste much in the way of words, which Nynette could respect, though it made communication rather difficult. In fact, Nynette could probably count on her fingers the number of times Sinora had spoken out loud. Most of those were complaints, too.

She needed a reason to talk to the girl from Eleven.

Seeing the structure of Sinora's kindling, she pointed to the shoddy construction and said, "You really should build it more like a house. You know, squares on top of squares. Or like a cone, and stuff some flammable stuff inside." She reached out and rearranged the thin strips of wood, completely aware of Sinora's glare but unable to stop herself. "There. Like that."

Staring at the new construction, the corner of Sinora's mouth twitched with something like a sneer, but her face remained otherwise inscrutable. "Thanks."

Maelyn was watching now, more confused than anything. "You don't seem very thankful."

Sinora rolled her eyes, and as she lit the wood on fire, she said, "So, I have to look grateful in order to be grateful? That's nice."

Although she wanted to point out that gratitude usually involved some display of actual gratitude, Nynette held her tongue. She got the feeling that Sinora wouldn't appreciate the input much. Actually, Nynette was pretty sure that her ally from Eleven would have rather turned in for the day and gone back to bed. She'd made it pretty clear to everyone by complaining about it multiple times.

"What do you think you're going to show the gamemakers?" she asked, trying to break the awkward silence.

"I will demonstrate my medical knowledge," Maelyn said, keeping her attention on her kindling pile. "And perhaps tie knots and attempt to stab a dummy."

Sinora looked up from the growing flames of her own fire. "Well, I plan on setting something on fire. Maybe I'll slash a dummy. I don't know."

_Maybe you'll show them your hibernation skills, _Nynette thought, a little surprised by her own bitterness. Sinora had more or less invited herself into their alliance, and yet she acted like their presence burdened her. _If she hates us so much, she can just leave._

But Nynette would never say that out loud. She supposed she should have been grateful to have another ally, because realistically speaking, she and Maelyn didn't have the best chances on their own.

Still, that didn't mean she had to enjoy it.

* * *

**Armand Castillo, District Eleven**

* * *

He didn't mind the twerp from Twelve following him around. In fact, he rather enjoyed having a lackey. It reminded him of the boys back home, following his every command, treating him as a leader should be treated. This Ace kid hadn't quite approached lapdog status, but he was desperate, Ace could tell that much, and desperate people were easy to manipulate.

"Try to keep up," he said, throwing a sneer over his shoulder.

Ace's eyes widened, and he scurried to Armand's side. "Sorry. I got distracted."

Armand rolled his eyes. His new lackey got distracted a lot. He'd have to fix that before they got into the arena, otherwise he'd get himself killed. That didn't bother Armand so much, but he wanted to wring as much use as he could out of the boy from Twelve before that happened. Perhaps finding more allies would be a good idea. Just in case. The more fodder, the better.

"We need more allies," he said, turning on Ace, arms crossed. "Maybe some older tributes, since we need strong people to do the grunt work."

Ace considered this. "Well, there's the one with Enoch, Owen, and that girl from Thirteen, or the one with Dabria, Aviana, and Charne. They seem pretty strong."

Armand may have been ambitious, but he certainly wasn't stupid, and even partially-blinded by his own self-importance, he could see that neither of those alliances would tolerate their presence. Ace, maybe. But not Armand. He shook his head. "No."

"Florian, Damian, and Da-"

"No." Armand didn't like hoity-toity rich people. They didn't know how to deal with real problems.

"Uh." Ace scanned the room, mouth hanging open. "What about Tullus and Polly? And that other guy, Niko?"

Instead of outright denying the possibility, Armand actually gave the idea some thought. Despite his size, Tullus actually seemed pretty nice, Niko appeared to be a doormat, and Polly was… Polly. Armand hadn't actually paid her that much attention, but that didn't matter. She hadn't done anything particularly ridiculous, and if worst came to worst, he could deal with her.

Without a word, he headed toward the group of older tributes, not waiting for Ace to catch up.

The girl from Three looked up at his approach, and the boy from Thirteen gave him a wary stare, obviously suspicious. That was okay. Armand didn't need everyone's approval, he just needed the approval of the leaders, which Niko wasn't.

"Me and Ace want to join your alliance," he said, letting his arms fall to his side and placing his feet shoulder width apart. He wanted to intimidate her, but not scare her off completely.

Tullus took notice of him then, and came over to inspect the two new arrivals. Armand didn't change his posture. He wasn't so sure he could intimidate the boy from Two, but he could darn well try. Plus, looking strong was a big part of actually being strong.

"They want to join us," Polly said to Tullus, raising an eyebrow. "What do you think?"

Surely Armand's reputation had preceded him, and knowing that, how could they say 'no'? If anything, they should've been grateful that he'd chosen them.

Tullus clasped his hands behind his back, thinking. Myriad emotions crossed his face, from hopeful to cynical, amused to irritated. Very briefly, something akin to anger lingered in the angle of his brow, the set of his jaw, but it passed so quickly that Armand wasn't even sure he'd seen it properly. In the end, it didn't matter what he'd seen.

"Sure," he finally said. "Strength in numbers, right?"

Out of the corner of his eyes, Armand saw Niko's shoulders slump. He'd have to keep an eye on that guy.

If it got too bad, Armand would do what he had to do.

* * *

**Niko Sundita, District Thirteen**

* * *

Niko couldn't tell if going from zero to four allies within a few hours was a good thing or not. On the one hand, he potentially had people to watch his back in the arena, but on the other hand, he didn't know any of them very well. He'd been fine with just Polly and Tullus. Armand and Ace? Not so much.

He'd dealt with enough skeevy people back in Thirteen to immediately pin Armand as a self-serving worm. By now, the kid's brazen arrogance was legendary among the tributes. After stealing other peoples' seats in the mess hall, talking down to everyone he met, and generally establishing himself as a nuisance, Niko would have been surprised if the boy from Eleven managed to last five minutes in the arena after painting such a big target on his own back.

As for the boy from Twelve, Niko had witnessed the vase incident on the first night after training, since he was staying in the room just down the hall. Entrusting his well-being to someone so volatile didn't strike Niko as the smartest thing to do. Even after he'd mentioned the incident to Polly, she'd shrugged it off, and Tullus had said that everyone deserved a second chance.

Niko was beginning to seriously doubt their judgment. Even so, he supposed he should have been happy to have an alliance at all.

"Hey, Thirteen," Armand said, shouldering him with unnecessary roughness. "You and Ace should fight."

Niko opened his mouth to reject the suggestion, because he wasn't about to take orders from someone he neither liked nor trusted, but Polly stopped him. "That doesn't sound like a bad idea. You're pretty evenly matched, I think, and it would be good to get some practice in before the gamemakers judge us."

_Crap_. He liked Polly. Telling her 'no' might upset her.

With a reluctant and entirely fake smile, Niko nodded his head. "Sure. Sounds good."

He wanted to smack the smug grin off of Armand's face, but stayed his hand. It wasn't worth it.

Ace ran onto the mat with entirely too much enthusiasm, and Niko couldn't tell if it was because he wanted to please Armand or enjoyed the thought of beating him up. Dancing around on the edge of the ring, Ace raised his fists but didn't bother to assume a defensive posture, which indicated arrogance or a lack of training. Judging by how he let Armand treat him, it was probably the latter.

Niko would let him off easy.

They circled each other a few times, each waiting for the other to make the first move. As expected, Ace quickly lost his patience. He struck out with a sloppy punch, and Niko almost rolled his eyes at Twelve's terrible form. Feet sticking out, wrist bent, poor posture.

He dodged and struck Ace on the shoulder, but he didn't put much momentum into it. He felt bad for fighting someone so unprepared. They traded a few more non-punches, but neither seemed particularly interested in actually hitting their opponent.

"What are you doing?" Armand finally called to Ace, arms spread wide. "Hit him already!"

This seemed to give Ace the nudge he needed. He lunged forward, face set with determination, which made Niko feel even worse, especially when he grabbed the boy from Twelve by the shoulders and dropped him onto the mat. As Ace gasped for air, Niko put his foot on his chest, never dropping his defensive stance.

"Do you want to stop?"

Ace, apparently more understanding of the situation than Armand, nodded his head, still wheezing. "Yeah. Okay, I give up."

Niko knelt down and offered his hand, which Ace gladly accepted, and he helped Twelve to his feet.

"Lucky break," Armand muttered.

Niko suppressed a sigh. He really wished Tullus hadn't let the brat join.

* * *

**Dabria Laine, District Four**

* * *

The vast majority of people were dumb most of the time. Dabria had accepted this fact early-on, but that didn't negate her disappointment. If anything, it enhanced it, because she could see the innate stupidity underlying most human activities.

She liked to think that she was only dumb some of the time, but that was probably wishful thinking. Luckily, most of the other tributes were dumber than her, so it didn't really matter.

Aviana and Charne were exceptions, for the most part. They all seemed to stand on or around the same intellectual footing, which pleased Dabria more than she cared to admit. Dealing with idiots hardly qualified as a strength of hers.

In spite of this, she couldn't help but wonder if she'd made the right choice. The training room brimmed with dozens of smart, capable kids, each possessing their own knowledge and skills. So many potential successes, so many potential failures. Looking at her allies, though, she believed she'd made the right choice. At the very least, she'd made the best choice possible.

Aside from Dabria's own proficiency with a crossbow, Charne knew her way around the throwing knives, and Aviana had figured out how to properly wield a short sword with surprising ease. Not to mention their collective knowledge when it came to survival and the like. They'd been sure to each divide some time between the shelter, fire, water, and medical stations.

What pleased Dabria most was the fact that none of them had to be told what to do. They simply understood what had to be learned, then went and acquired the necessary knowledge. No hesitation, no dumb questions. Unlike her passive district partner and the numerous other sniveling cowards, Charne and Aviana had earned Dabria's respect. That surprised her almost as much as the fact that she _liked _them, too.

There was a first time for everything, she supposed.

"What sort of arena do you think it'll be?" Aviana asked in-between bites of pizza. They'd decided to take an early lunch break.

"I hope it's a mall," Charne said. "That way, I can die in style."

Dabria stuffed a mini-palmier into her mouth, savoring the high-calorie dessert. She'd need to store as much fat as possible before the Game began. "Considering that the last few arenas have been a pretty even mix of natural, artificial, and plain ridiculous, it's pointless to guess. It could be anything."

"I bet there'll be some nasty mutts," Aviana said. "Like the ones from a few years ago, those awful snake things."

Dabria remembered those monsters well. After two uneventful days, the gamemakers let loose a horde of gecko-scorpion-snake-things, which proceeded to slaughter ten tributes over the following eight hours. Many spectators cried foul, but no charges were brought against the Head Gamemaker, since the kids who died would have probably died by other means, anyways.

She sincerely hoped that this year's gamemakers didn't pull that sort of shit. People were unpredictable, which made them difficult to deal with, but mutts were so much worse, especially when they had been designed with near-invincibility. As much as she hated to admit it, the idea scared her.

"Considering it's the last Game ever," she said picking her teeth and trying to look nonchalant, "I doubt they'd let many of us get killed by mutts. It sends a stronger message if we're the ones killing our fellow tributes."

Her allies believed it, and she'd nearly convinced herself, but a hint of doubt remained. When it came to the gamemakers, nothing was for certain.

* * *

**Adara Tassin, District Twelve**

* * *

She'd faced the boy from Seven the day before, back at the sparring station, and she'd beaten him with nothing worse than a bruise on her left shoulder. Now, here he was again at the survival station, dragging along the poor kid from Three to participate in whatever activity currently held his fleeting interest. She almost felt bad for Emery.

As she read about the necessary amount of iodine meant to purify dirty water, she overheard Darian smack-talking nearly every other tribute in the room. Although his negativity probably got annoying after a while, she couldn't smother the giggle that rose at the mention of "that musclebound idiot from One". At the sound of her laughter, Darian sent a nasty glare her way, though it lightened by a fraction when he recognized her.

"What are you laughing about, Twelve?"

"I'm just impressed by your vast range of insults."

For a moment, he debated whether or not she was joking. Upon deciding that she was telling the truth, he turned his attention back to methods of rainwater collection. He still had a fading bruise around his eye, which he claimed came from a fight a week ago, as well as another one on his left cheek, which she'd given him the day prior. She wondered if he hated her for it, but quickly realized that she didn't care.

After a short while, Darian stood up from the chair, and headed off in the direction of the bathroom, leaving Emery to his own devices. From what she's seen so far, the kid seemed nice enough.

Adara rolled the words around in her mouth for a few moments before deciding to take the chance. "Why did you ally with him?"

Emery looked up, apparently surprised that someone would spend the energy to address him. After a moment's hesitation, he answered, "To be honest, I didn't really have a choice. He sorta just showed up and claimed me. He isn't that bad, really. Just abrasive. Once you get past that, he's alright." He paused. "Why don't _you_ have an ally?"

Adara thought of Ace, and the sound of shattering vases echoing through her mind. "I just haven't found the right person, I guess."

"What makes someone the 'right' person?"

"Someone who isn't a serial killer would be nice. But other than that, I can't really say. I'll just know."

"Well, if you're actually looking for an alliance and not just planning on being a loner, you might want to pick someone soon." He flipped through a few pages on the electronic tablet, reams of information reflected in his blue-gray eyes. "That kind of stuff can creep up on you."

She considered this. She could very well go it alone, but that was generally accepted as one of the fastest ways to get killed in the arena. It was always better to have someone else to share resources with, and to keep watch at night while the other slept.

She and Darian were the same size, though that said more about her than it did about him, and as evidenced before, she could take him in a fight, though he was by no means weak. Emery, on the other hand, was one of the weakest kids here, but he's also proven himself to be one of the smartest. The survival trainer had been quite impressed by his memorization skills and inductive reasoning.

Regardless of Darian's less-than-favorable temperament, she needed people like them, and considering the fact that most of the other alliances had already solidified, she probably had the best chance at fitting in with them.

When Darian returned, she waited for him to settle in before asking, "Can I join your alliance?"

He narrowed his eyes, suspicious. "Why would you want to do that?"

"Because I think you and Emery have useful skills."

"So it's not because of my charming personality?"

"Hardly."

He leaned his elbows on the table, mulling over the proposal.

Emery looked between them. "If it counts for anything, I like her."

Darian pressed his tongue against his teeth, leaned back, and let out a pent-up breath. A half-smile quirked the corner of his mouth. "I guess that settles it. Welcome to the team, Adara."

He said it with only the slightest sarcasm.

* * *

**Enoch Emeris, District Zero**

* * *

He was almost completely sure what skills he would show during his training session. Almost. There were a lot of things he could demonstrate, and considering the five minute time limit, he could only choose a few things to best showcase his abilities. Although he would have liked to believe he was the best at everything, he knew he had to choose wisely. It was, perhaps, the most important decision had had to make before the Games started.

Brand glared absentmindedly at the plants laid out on the table. When she pushed one of the leaves forward with a look of hesitant expectation, the trainer shook his head, and she heaved another sigh, the line between her eyebrows deepening. Slapping her hands on the table, she pushed her chair back and turned to Enoch. "I'm tired of getting this wrong."

Enoch raised an eyebrow and glanced at the trainer. The man was balding, in his early forties, at least. Blue hair, of course, a living relic from the pre-Seventy-Fifth era. Few people made such ostentatious fashion statements anymore, even in the former Capitol. Enoch refrained from rolling his eyes. In any case, the trainer didn't seem bothered by Brand's indifference, which meant that he probably wouldn't care if Enoch left, either, which was all well and good to Enoch. He'd only agreed to identify plants because, until five seconds ago, Brand seemed set on the idea, and he wanted to get on Brand's good side.

Since he'd decided to ally with her and Owen yesterday, she'd been mysteriously fickle. He couldn't even tell if she _had_ a good side.

He turned toward her, fingers laced. "Would you rather we do something else?"

She shrugged. "Is there anything else to do?"

At face-value, her question seemed ridiculous, but the more he thought about it, the more he agreed. There was still so much to learn, so many more skills to acquire, but there wasn't enough time to gather any meaningful amount of information. The gamemakers would start calling people soon to demonstrate their skills, and Enoch was number one on the list.

The thought sent a chill up his spine and his gut clenched with anxiety. He looked down at his hands in an attempt to quell his nausea. He didn't want to be first. Actually, he didn't want to go at all, but that couldn't be helped.

He wanted to go home.

A cold, logical voice reminded him that, realistically speaking, he already was home. His house was just across the city. Within walking distance, if he was feeling ambitious.

For him, that was the worst part. The closeness. Being held captive just a few miles from the place where he'd grown up and lived his life. It perplexed him, this break between normalcy and whatever the hell his life was now.

He wondered if his parents were worried. Probably. Although, knowing them, they had a self-serving response to whatever became of him. If he won, they'd fawn over him and everyone who would listen that they never lost faith in their darling boy. If he died, they'd mourn a bit, then write him off and cite his loss as evidence that he wouldn't have run the family empire very well, anyways. He hated them for that, always playing politics and spinning everything to their favor.

"You alright?" Brand asked, placing a cool, dry hand on his forearm, a deeper act of concern than he'd ever seen her display. "You look a little gray."

"Just worrying about the Gamemaker's judgment," he said, which was mostly true. He unclenched his fist and forced himself to smile. "Anyways, let's go find Owen. We need to use the last few hours to learn any important skills we haven't covered yet."

Happy to leave the accursed plant station behind, Brand was quick to agree. As they set off in search of their ally, Enoch banished any thoughts of his parents or doubts about his upcoming performance in front of the gamemakers. Lingering on negativity helped nothing.

It was better to bury it.

* * *

**Hello everyone! I hope everyone's doing well. Two more chapters until the bloodbath! Are you excited? I certainly am.**

**All of the alliances are done, and have been updated on the blog.**

**The poll results are up on my profile. At the posting of this chapter, Charne was winning with 11 votes, but now Enoch is winning with 12. Congratulations to District Zero!  
**

**Thanks for reading, and let me know what you think!**


	9. Judgment

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Florian Casimir, District One**

* * *

He wasn't worried. He had no reason to be.

Other than maybe having a week to live. That worried him. But it was also of his control for the time being. For now, he had to focus on giving the best performance he could.

A bead of sweat rolled down his back as he marched into the room, throwing the doors wide. A dozen pairs of eyes fell upon him, and he was suddenly aware of his posture, his stride, his facial expression, and every other unimportant bit of minutiae that carried far more weight than it had any right to. He hated his nerves. The anxiety reminded him of the in-between time back in One, when his dad was still figuring out the whole academy thing, when Florian had found himself caught in a tough place. A pariah, almost. He'd allowed himself to start some less-than-savory habits, and the fear, the uncertainty... it made the cravings worse.

_No._

Not here. Not today. He had a Game to win.

"Good afternoon," he said, bowing slightly. "I trust you're all doing well?"

"Indeed," said the Head Gamemaker, her words slicing through his pleasantries like a scalpel through butter. "Florian Casimir, you may begin."

He paused for a brief moment, taken aback by her razor-edged tone, but he quickly shrugged it off and proceeded to the weapons rack, where he selected a particularly sturdy short sword.

He circled a dummy, twirling the sword with perhaps more flourish than necessary, and he let out a pent-up breath as his training took over. Proper grip, wide stance. Center of mass, abdomen, groin, neck - he had to aim for whichever was most exposed. Considering it was a dummy, the arms and legs weren't a problem. It's not like it could fight back.

The blade flashed under the florescent lights as the sword rose, fell, and bit into the dummy's neck, deep enough to sever it save for a sliver of plastic meant to function as the spine. He slashed the next dummy on the chest, sending red grains of rice flying in an arc and spilling across the floor, though the blade caught on a few plastic ribs, throwing his momentum off. The third dummy's head split open under the force of the blow, each chunk peeling away like a flower in bloom. He plunged the blade into the fourth dummy's chest, and split the fifth from groin to collarbone. A thin layer of red rice grains covered the training mat, digging into the soles of his feet, but he ignored it.

Up on the wall, the countdown clock read 4:28. Thirty-two seconds. Not a personal best, but definitely good.

Not one to waste time, he replaced the weapon on the rack and headed over to the rope course. Fighting his way up the net, he paid special attention to his footholds, not wanting to make a fool of himself in front of the gamemakers. He reached the top platform under a minute, allowed himself a moment to catch his breath, then headed straight back down again, dropping to the floor about halfway down. The impact sent blood rushing to his feet and he winced, but pretended not to notice. No weakness.

He hopped onto the track, taking a few seconds to build up to a full sprint. He went all-out for as along as he could, though running had never been his forte, and jogged to a stop once the countdown clock buzzed.

"Thank you, Mr. Casimir. You are free to go."

Raising his hand in thanks, he trotted toward the exit. Hopefully they enjoyed his performance. It was all up to them now.

* * *

**Maelyn LeBreton, District Five**

* * *

As with nearly everything she set her mind to, Maelyn had forgotten nothing from her three days of training. Water purification, tying knots, starting fires, and the like.

Even so, the weight of gamemaker eyes held her down, weakening her legs and dulling her mind. She hated being watched by the numerous inscrutable faces, silently judging her every action. Their gazes felt like ants scuttling across her skin. She wanted it to stop.

With tremulous fingers, she wrapped a roll of filmy gauze around a medical dummy's torso, stemming the flow of fake blood and sealing off the injury. If it were a real person, they would probably have died of blood loss by now, but that was beside the point. She just had to demonstrate that her skill set included treating injuries of this magnitude. In any case, her only experience came from what she'd learned in training, and though she hardly qualified as an expert, she remembered everything the trainer had taught her. Seal the arteries first, then tend to the injury. Make sure the patient had the highest possible chance of survival.

She forced herself to take a deep, calming breath. Her thoughts were racing, and with so much riding on this performance, she couldn't afford to make a mistake.

_Focus._

With a quick tug, she finished the bandage off and stepped back to assess her work. Not too bad. Not too great, either.

Drumming her fingers on her legs, Maelyn glanced around the room, trying to decide on her next course of action. The gamemakers needed to see the best that she had to offer, otherwise she'd get a low score. Perhaps the lowest.

Maelyn entertained no delusions pertaining to her chances in the arena. Unless she did her very best, and maybe even then, she was likely to die early. Dozens of prior Hunger Games had proven that. Non-Careers, especially those who didn't have rigorous jobs back home, rarely made it far. Barring exceptional stupidity, physical strength far outweighed intelligence inside of the arena. Unfortunately, Maelyn LeBreton had little physical strength to speak of.

But she had knowledge, determination, and good allies. Adding to that, a decent training score would go a long way to improving her likelihood of survival. Granted, it wasn't difficult to improve her chances when they currently stood at zero.

She shook her head, clearing her mind. She couldn't think like that.

Grabbing a coil of rope, she held it up for the gamemakers to see. A few nodded, others gave no indication of interest, but all were watching.

_It's not a snake. It ain't gonna bite you._

The memory of the trainer's voice gave her a rush of assurance, and her hands tightened around the rope with new-found confidence. She had to take control, she had to be strong, and the gamemakers had to see that she was ready.

With a measure of deftness that surprised even herself, Maelyn tied the rope into numerous configurations, each one modeled perfectly from memory. Restraints, hinges, even a weapon made from a large ball of knotted rope. She remembered it all.

When she finished, she set it down and stepped back, allowing herself a tiny smile. Sure, it wasn't a whirlwind performance like she knew many of the other tributes would give, but it was the best she could do.

The Head Gamemaker waved toward the exit. "You may leave, Miss LeBreton."

Maelyn turned and left, gnawing on her lower lip. She hoped that her best was good enough.

* * *

**Denim Luxley, District Eight**

* * *

He knew exactly what he was doing.

Well. Maybe that wasn't completely true. But he knew enough, and that's what mattered.

As he piled the training dummies in the center of the room, the gamemakers leaned closer to watch him, muttering among themselves, some dubious, some simply curious. He felt the Head Gamemaker's unwavering gaze on the back of his head, but it didn't affect him. He cared little for her judgment, and cared even less for his training score.

He hated the power they held over him, and he especially hated how much his future depended upon their petty assessments.

Turning his attention to the other stations, he hunted for something to seal the deal. Something short and sweet that would say, "Fuck you _and_ the horse you rode in on."

The fire station looked especially promising.

He rooted around in the canisters and withdrew a bottle of clear, cloyingly fragrant oil. Eucalyptus? Whatever. Definitely flammable, so good enough.

Wrapping an old cloth around a pole to make a torch, he dipped the torch in the oil, and poured the rest onto the pile of dummies. It felt kinda cool, like he was a mobster disposing of his enemies. He imagined a number of people among the dummies, mostly the peacekeepers who had originally taken him, but also the gamemakers. They were just as guilty, if not more so.

Lighting one of the matches from the fire station, he raised it to the end of the torch. It burst into flame, orange tongues swirling upward, and he held it a little further away, surprised by the intensity of the heat.

He hesitated. The torch sputtered in his hand, and for a moment, he felt stupid. This wouldn't accomplish anything. He'd still be in the Game, subject to their opinions, wondering how his family was doing without him, and he'd probably dead within the next week. However, the knowledge of his likely demise only served to encourage him. He had to squeeze all the life he could into these last few days.

Last _day_, he corrected himself. There was only one left. Less than one, actually. His heart leaped into a gallop at the thought. He hated the fact that he was afraid, even though he knew every other tribute probably felt the same. Everything went to shit tomorrow morning, and the assholes up on the balcony were the ones responsible. Even if they were just figureheads, mere proxies of the government, Denim wanted to hate them. So he did.

_Fuck it._

He tossed the torch onto the pile of dummies. The flames found the oil and ignited with a rush of air, engulfing the fabric and sending up a plume of black, acrid smoke. A few of the gamemakers shouted out in varying combinations of anger and surprise, but the Head Gamemaker raised her hand to silence them.

A fire alarm shrilled from the opposite side of the room, drawing a squadron of Avoxes armed with extinguishers. They swarmed over the fire, smothering it with jets of white retardant. Denim knew it was time to make his exit.

With a flourish of his hands, he gave a theatric bow and donned the widest shit-eating grin he could manage. "May your futures be as pleasant as you are."

He spun on his heels, giving them the middle finger salute as he exited the room. His score meant zilch, anyways. Might as well make it worthwhile.

* * *

**Samson Galloway, District Nine**

* * *

He tapped his feet against the tile, anxiety building with every passing second. They'd called Evelyn Arellis at least five minutes ago. He was next, and as much as he pretended otherwise, he was afraid. He wished he weren't.

The other tributes chatted nervously as they waited their turn. It was all a bunch of empty words, meaningless things said by desperate people who just needed something to pass the time. Deep down, he envied them. He wished Denim were there, if only to provide a distraction, but his ally had left a while ago. He had no one to keep him company, or help him ignore the fact that his survival could hinge on this one performance.

No pressure.

"Samson Galloway, please report to the gamemakers for evaluation."

His stomach constricted and a wave of pins and needles swept across his neck and shoulders. This was it.

He planted his feet on the tile floor and rose from the chair. The image of failing miserably and embarrassing himself in front of the gamemakers rushed to the forefront of his mind, but he shoved the thought away. He'd do just fine, and he'd earn a great score, and the sponsors would bet on him, and then he'd win. Simple as that.

_If only._

"Good luck," Nynette said, offering him a small smile. Her trembling hands sat clasped in her lap, and for a brief moment, he pitied her. Being the younger, weaker, more stress-prone tribute, she had it worse than he did.

He gave a shallow nod. "Thanks. You too."

To his surprise, he actually meant it.

He strode down the narrow corridor with as much bravado as he could manage. They had to see his strength, even if he couldn't feel it.

The gamemakers looked down upon him as he entered the room, watching his every move with detached interest. After sixteen other tributes, they were probably getting bored by now. He had to keep them interested.

"Samson Galloway, you may begin," said the Head Gamemaker. As soon as she spoke, the clock on the wall started counting down from five minutes.

He headed immediately for the weapons station, searching for a dagger, even though he wasn't the best at using one. Almost all of the other tributes were equally untrained, so he didn't have to be the best. He just had to be good enough to win.

The dummies weren't too difficult to tear apart, but the going was slow, and he knew his form was awful. If it were a real person, they'd have either escaped or attacked him by now, but that couldn't be helped. So long as he got the job done and actually demonstrated some degree of skill, his score couldn't be too bad, especially since there weren't any true Careers this year to compare him to. That's what he hoped, at least.

When red rice grains covered the floor, he stepped back and looked up at the gamemakers. "I'm done."

As he spoke, the clock hit zero and an alarm buzzed.

"Thank you, Mr. Galloway. You may leave."

He replaced the dagger on the weapons rack and headed back out into the hallway without sparing the gamemakers a second glance. If he got a good score, great. If he got a bad score, oh well. All he could do now was wait.

* * *

**Sinora Midori, District Eleven**

* * *

She sat on the couch, not entirely sure why she'd even bothered to watch the announcement of the training scores. She supposed that, somewhere deep in the depths of her stony, passionless heart, she entertained a modicum of interest in the other tributes. After all, they were her adversaries. Know thine enemy and whatnot. The more she knew about her competition, the higher her chances of anticipating their actions and ultimately surviving the arena. She certainly wanted to survive.

Didn't she?

The more she thought about it, the less it made sense. She didn't like her home, and her family even less so. The endless field work, most of which she shirked, made life nearly unbearable. Everyone hated her for being lazy, and she understood why, but she wasn't about to change herself just to please them. What life did she have to go back to?

Even if she wanted to, it wasn't like she'd used her training days very wisely. Sure, she'd learned how to set fires, her interest in which had even astonished her, but she hadn't done much else. Worse yet, her alliance hardly inspired confidence. To be fair, Nynette and Maelyn were smart, and Sinora respected that. But sometimes, brain power couldn't hold a candle to brute strength, and the arena would be full of such situations. Somehow, she had to make it through.

She wished she were stronger.

Devara leaned back on the plush couch, drumming her fingers against the padded armrest. "Look at those bimbos. Going on and on about the potential tributes, acting like it's a guessing game. Don't they understand that they're the reason why this is the last Game?"

On the holoscreen, the news anchors were discussing the probable identities of the tributes, since District Zero still hadn't disclosed that information. Their identities would stay hidden until launch, Sinora knew that much. But a lot of the guesses were surprisingly accurate. They'd correctly identified Enoch Emeris, Owen Blackwood, Margery Kappel, and Aviana Recine.

"The girl from District Five," said the red-haired anchorwoman, "now, that's a hard one. According to the Bureau of Missing Persons, three girls were reported missing within twenty-four hours of the reaping, but as we know, those might be incorrect since the families present at the abductions were told not to report to the authorities. Additionally, a number of anonymous tips have poured in, but they all point to different people. The most common name cropping up is a young girl by the name of Kira Lawson, a longtime resident of the Hillrose Prefecture. She was reported missing..."

Sinora tuned out the worthless conjecture. She just wanted to hear the training scores and go to bed.

She wondered how Maelyn felt, having people guessing the wrong person and assuming that she was someone else. Worse yet, Sinora wondered what happened to the real Kira Lawson. Did she run away? Was she kidnapped? Murdered?

Perhaps the real Kira Lawson had it worse than the real Maelyn LeBreton, but Sinora doubted it. There wasn't really any difference between a tribute and a murder victim, except that the tribute spent a few more days knowing that they'd die. Unless the tribute managed to win.

But even then, there were a lot of ways to die, not all of them strictly physical. Sinora had to be careful if she intended on living.

* * *

**Charne Valle, District Zero**

* * *

She threw a piece of popcorn at Aviana. "Turn on the holoscreen."

The girl from Ten stuck out her tongue, but did as she was told. They crowded closer, fuzzy blankets drawn around their shoulders and bowls of snack food at their feet.

The sleepover had been Charne's idea. It almost felt normal, like spending the evening curled up with some friends and watching scary movies into the wee hours of the morning. Except these were her allies, not her friends, and instead of a scary movie, they were waiting for their training scores, which ultimately decided how their time in the arena would play out.

So really, not normal at all.

Marguerite and Cyprion had absconded to their rooms, leaving the tributes to their own devices. Enoch had been wandering in and out of the living room all evening, apparently restless with anxiety, but still trying and mostly failing to keep up a facade of calm. He was so transparent.

"Pacing does nothing," Charne said, cramming a fistful of popcorn into her mouth. She winced as a kernel shard wedged itself into her gum line.

"What, am I annoying you?"

"No more than usual."

"Screw you."

"Is that an offer?" She chucked a piece of popcorn at his back as he left the room, and it bounced harmlessly off of his shoulder, leaving a buttery smudge next to his collar. He paused, looked down, then looked at Charne. With a trace of disgust, he shook his head and left.

"What's his problem?" asked Dabria.

Charne shrugged. "He's his own problem." She didn't mind. In spite of herself, she actually liked Enoch. Sure, he was an overly-sensitive, temperamental jerk who cared way too much about other peoples' opinions, but to a certain extent, so was Charne. He was just trying to survive this awful experience, like every other tribute, and he'd earned the right to a little anxiety and self-pity. Granted, he still had to die, which sucked, so she maintained her distance. No point in getting involved with someone who'd be dead and buried within a week.

Under different circumstances, they might have even been friends. That was the second-worst part about this whole stupid thing.

Up on the screen, a blue-haired anchorman smiled broadly at the camera. "Hello, and welcome back to the One Hundredth Annual Hunger Games. Just moments ago, Aphelion Andros released the training scores for public viewing. They are as follows."

The screen flickered blue, and the words "District Zero Male" appeared in bright white letters. Charne scoffed at the dehumanizing sterility of it all. The rest of Panem didn't even have a name to attach to the tributes. Next to Enoch's designation, the number "7" appeared, and she heard him cheering from the next room over as a monotonous female voice read the score out loud.

She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, "Good job!"

Her own designation appeared, along with the number "6". For a moment, she resented the fact that Enoch scored higher than her, but it dissipated as quickly as it had come.

Aviana leaned over, palm outstretched, and Charne high-fived her.

"Well done," Dabria said, conceding a small nod. It was the closest thing to approval that Charne had seen from her ally, so she gave a nod in turn. She'd take what she could get.

On the holoscreen, "District One Male" appeared, along with an "9". She raised an eyebrow. Florian hadn't seemed nearly so competent in training.

She looked down at the popcorn bowl as the bland voice said, "District One Female: 3."

Charne guffawed, almost choking on a kernel of popcorn, and it quickly escalated into a full-out cackle. As the sound left her mouth, she knew it sounded weird. Grating. Ugly, maybe. But how could she possibly act normal when the realty of the Game stood over her like a guillotine, waiting to fall with a spray of blood? It was all so ridiculous that she couldn't help but laugh. The last Hunger Games, ever, in the history of the world, and she'd been reaped into it. Talk about bad luck.

Even when her allies started giving her strange looks, and Enoch leaned out of his room to see what was wrong, she didn't stop laughing. She only forced herself to stop when her peals of laughter started to sound dangerously similar to sobs. As she wiped a tear away, she realized with distant horror that it was real. The laughter, the tears, the Game. It was all true, all at once, and she within a hair's breadth of revealing her weakness. Aviana might forgive that, but Dabria wouldn't.

"Sorry," she said, in an attempt to deflect their attention. "It's just such a sad score, and I guess it hit my funny bone."

Dabria nodded. "Pretty pathetic, yeah."

And pathetic wasn't something any of the tributes could afford to be.

* * *

**Emery Sobel, District Three**

* * *

A solid knot of anxiety sat in his stomach, something cold and slippery that straddled the line between hope and fear. He wanted to live, but that meant the other twenty-seven people had to die, and he definitely didn't want that. Was his life worth twenty-seven others? No. But if they had to die either way? What then?

Maybe.

He didn't know. He wouldn't know until the time came, when he'd have to choose between himself and the other tributes.

He draped his arm over his eyes and sighed as the bland voice on the holoscreen announced, "District Two Male: 7."

Did he even stand a chance at winning? He liked to think so, but he wasn't dumb. His chances, especially compared to those of people like Florian and Dabria and Tristan, were dishearteningly low, even if he had people like Darian and Adara by his side.

Were they really interested in his safety, though? After all, his current state of not-being-dead just so happened to interfere with their chances at victory. If he were in their position, as the physically stronger person allied with a weaker, younger kid, he couldn't be sure that he would take the high road. Living was living, death was death. Most people did everything they could to avoid the latter, and he couldn't fault them for human instinct.

Polly squealed with delight as she saw Tullus's score, and Thermo congratulated her on choosing such a strong ally. Of course, she had three other allies, so it's not like she was in bad shape, anyways. At least some of them had to score well.

"District Two Female: 9."

Emery didn't remember much of Medea, but he mentally marked her as someone to avoid. A score that high showed that she meant business.

"Here we go," Polly said, shaking Emery's knee. He smirked, wishing he could be as positive as she could.

"District Three Male: 6."

Emery's heart lurched. He sat bolt upright on the couch, staring at the screen in slack-jawed disbelief. He hadn't misheard. The screen definitely said that he'd earned a 6. He had hardly dared to hope for such a good score, and yet there it was.

Polly clapped, grinning ear-to-ear. "Good job, Emery!"

Flouric raised an eyebrow. "What skills did you show them?"

"Just some medical stuff," Emery said, eyebrows drawn in disbelief, even as his score disappeared. "And some circuitry and programming, too."

The mentors exchanged a knowing look.

"That says a lot about what the arena will probably look like. They rarely give such good scores just for stitching up a medical dummy."

Emery nodded, but he was more focused on the dawning realization that, even as one of the youngest tributes in the Game, the gamemakers had given him a 6! That was pretty good. He certainly could have done worse. His allies were probably pretty happy about a score like that.

"District Three Female: 5."

If she was annoyed by the fact that her much younger district partner had scored higher, she didn't let on. With a huge sigh of relief, she sank back against the couch, clasping her hands in front of her chest. "Oh, thank goodness."

Thermo gave a slight nod. "Not bad."

Emery allowed himself an internal grin. They'd actually done well.

Maybe they had a chance.

* * *

**Danique Vittori, District One**

* * *

Danique leaned against the marble sink, grip tightening until her fingers turned white and the tendons pressed taut against the insides of her wrists. She drew a staccato breath and held it in, trying to keep her sobs as quiet as possible.

_District One Female: 3._

How pathetic. How insignificant. How very typical of Danique

She'd never been a standout, but she'd expected more of herself. By spending her whole life in the eaves, at least she could pretend that she hadn't been giving it her all. Her mediocre performance could always improve if she simply tried a little harder - which, of course, she never did. Why bother when no one paid attention?

Now, people were watching. Judging. Deciding whether she was worthy of life. And she had done her best.

For the first time in a long, long while, she had truly given it her all. Seeing the results, seeing that heartbreaking little 3 had confirmed her secret terror, a weight that she'd been carrying ever since she abdicated the spotlight to her sister.

Mediocre was the best she _could _do. She'd never held back. There just wasn't anything there, and she'd spent the last decade and a half trying to convince herself otherwise, because she didn't want to deal with the truth. Now, all those years of subliminal frustration and anger finally had an outlet, because the evidence was up on the screen for all of Panem to see.

3\. Weak. Pathetic. Not good enough.

_Never_ good enough.

Her chest tightened as a surge of self-loathing flooded her thoughts. Red tinged the edges of her vision, and she grabbed the nearest object with substantial mass, which happened to be a bottle of perfume. With a scream dredged up from the core of her being, she hurled the crystal bottle at the mirror, which shattered on impact and sent a spiderweb of cracks across the reflective surface. The cloying scent of spice and flowers filled the bathroom as the perfume splattered against the walls and counter, accompanied by a chorus of glass shards as they fell onto every available surface.

Covering her face with her hands, Danique let out another low wail, backed against the wall, and sunk to the floor, not bothering to conceal her sobs any longer.

Someone knocked frantically on the door. "Danique?"

Lourde.

She swallowed and tried to speak, but the tightness in her throat reduced her words to a strangled squeal. With a more concerted effort, she managed a weak croak.

"I'm fine. Go away."

A second voice answered, "You are very obviously _not_ fine."

Florian, too? Was everyone coming to her pity party? Because she didn't remember inviting anyone, her mentor and district partner least of all.

"I'm coming in," Florian said, and before she could manage a retort, he eased the door open. As soon as he poked his head inside, his hand shot to his nose and he gave a muffled gasp. "Holy hell. Did Spring explode in here?" Catching sight of the broken perfume bottle, he dropped all pretense of humor, eyes going wide as his hand slipped away. "Danique..."

"Just leave me alone," she said, struggling to articulate each word.

Completely ignoring her request, he crept over, brushed away a few shards of glass, and sat beside her. "Talk to me."

"The scores speak for themselves."

"You're still worrying about that?" he said, using a dismissive tone that Danique didn't know how to interpret. Was he being flippant, or trying to make her feel better?

"Your score isn't everything."

"Says the guy who got a 9."

"People who got 3's have won before."

"Yeah, all five of them. If even that."

"Then you just have to be number six," he said, smiling.

She didn't know why he would say something like that. For her to win, he had to die. And there was no way she would outlast him. They both knew it. He was just saying things to make her feel better, not because he actually meant it. She was tired of pity, and she wanted Florian's pity least of all.

"I appreciate what you're doing," she said, pleased to find that she'd mostly regained control over her voice, "but I just want to be alone right now."

Florian's smile faltered and faded. He gave a small nod, then stood, albeit reluctantly. "Okay. But I'm here for you." Gesturing to Lourde and Ivory, he said, "We're all here."

Danique nodded, forcing herself to smile. "I know. Thank you."

That was the problem. They were there to support her, even though she didn't deserve it.

It was all too much.

* * *

**Hello everyone! Late update, but what else is new? My classes are ridiculous this quarter, and school comes first.**

**Anyways, the training scores are up on the blog. Any that catch your eye, for whatever reason?**

**The next chapter is the last before the bloodbath. Ooooooooh.**

**Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think!**


	10. Maybe

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Tristan Vorassi, District Six**

* * *

Saying that he woke before dawn would have been inaccurate, since he hadn't actually slept at all. He'd tried, but every time he came close to drifting off, he remembered how close the Game was, and the resulting adrenaline spike would return him to the realm of insomnia.

Somewhere around four in the morning, he simply gave up, threw the covers off in frustration, and hopped out of bed, unable to stay still any longer. He knew it was part of the fight-or-flight response, but that didn't lessen his irritation. He just wanted to get some sleep, because sleep deprivation wouldn't help his chances of surviving the bloodbath, but his brain just wouldn't shut up. Too many thoughts, too many memories, too many regrets.

It was like his mind had chosen this night to make him relive every source of shame, everything that he had absolutely no ability to fix, like not being there for his father when he died and leaving Layton on bad terms. How was he supposed to know they'd never have a chance to make up?

He pulled the curtains aside and looked out at the district that had all but ordered his death, streetlamps and highrises glowing bright in the darkness before dawn. Sitting back down on the bed covers, he drew a heavy sigh, momentarily overcome by the sheer ugliness of his situation. He missed his mom. He missed his sister. He missed his boyfriend. Tristan missed everything about his life back in Six, and even though he knew he shouldn't waste his time thinking about everything he could lose, he thought about it anyways. He couldn't help it.

His vision blurred. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he leaned over and let the tears fall, the ones that he'd denied himself until this very moment. He didn't want to die, and he didn't want anyone else to die for this stupid Game, either. It was wrong, it was unfair, it was too much. He hadn't even had the chance to say goodbye, which probably hurt his loved ones as much as it hurt him. Maybe even more, because at least he knew the fate of Tristan Vorassi. Everyone else was in the dark, and for all they knew, he could have simply run away. When they saw his face on the screen during launch, would they be surprised? Or would it confirm their fears?

He stood vigil over the city as a pinkish glow seeped into the eastern horizon, bleeding upwards as morning drew closer. A few more cars appeared on the roadways, and a couple minutes before five thirty in the morning, the streetlamps started shutting off, city block by city block. He felt every grain of sand as it slipped through the hourglass, like air being sucked from his lungs. Pretty soon, he wouldn't be able to breathe at all.

Across the hotel, the other tributes and their mentors were starting to stir. A lot of them were waking up for the last time.

Dragging the curtains back into place, he paused and drew a breath. He had to make it through. It was the only option.

After wrestling on a faded T-shirt and jeans, he ghosted into the kitchen, trying to not to wake up the mentors or his district partner, but was surprised to find Ryder already sitting at the kitchen table. In the dark. She plucked a strawberry from the bowl of fruit set in front of her and raised it to her mouth, smiling at Tristan.

"You couldn't sleep, either?"

He smiled, but there was something cold in the gesture that caused Ryder's own smile to falter. "I'll sleep when I'm dead."

The humor fell flat and it showed on Ryder's face, but he made no attempt to apologize. He didn't have enough time for dumb pleasantries anymore.

* * *

**Darian Kesslar, District Seven**

* * *

Much to his own surprise, despite the constant adrenaline coursing through his system, Darian slept for a solid eight hours and woke up well-rested on the morning of launch. Things almost felt normal, like any other day back in District Seven, until he remembered where he was and why he was there. The vise of fear clamped back down and he pulled the covers over his head. He didn't want the face the day, especially when it could have been his last.

Sunlight filtered in through the filmy white curtains, gentle and comforting, as if it were mocking him. He jumped when something shattered in the kitchen. Margery's muffled apology drifted down the hall.

He pushed the covers back, but promptly lost all motivation to move. Contemplating the ceiling, he let his breathing slow, feeling his heart beat and the air cycling through his lungs. He liked his body. More accurately, he liked _having_ a body. Getting killed would deprive him of that privilege, and send him on his not-so-merry way to wherever people went when they died.

Darian had to win. He had to live. The alternative was too heavy to even think about.

He slapped on some clothes, hurried out of his room, and found Margery picking up the pieces of a broken cup off of the kitchen floor. She looked up and smiled. "Good morning."

"'Morning." He took some toast from the breakfast platter that Cedar had prepared, crumbs falling everywhere. "Who do you think is gonna die today?"

"I'd rather not talk about stuff like that."

"Oh, please. Just because the thought of it upsets you doesn't mean everyone will live."

"I know that, but I'd rather spend my last hours of freedom thinking about happy things."

Darian scoffed and swiped an apple. "Like what?"

She drew her eyebrows together and gave him a chiding frown, like something his mother would do, which only served to irritate him. "Like my family. Like my friends. Like all of the reasons why I want to go home."

He bit into the apple, which gave a satisfying crunch, and wiped away the juice running down his chin. With a full mouth, he said, "Newsflash: you'll have to think about the bad things in order to even have a chance of going home. Anything else, and you're just deluding yourself. On that note: I've got places to go, allies to see, people to kill. Catch you later." He half-turned, then added, "Or maybe not."

Before his mentor could yell at him for being a jerk to Margery, he slipped out of the front door and into the hallway. He'd barely decided to go to Adara's room before he saw her walking down the hall, shoulders squared and gait practically oozing confidence. She seemed surprised to see him, but it only showed for a moment.

"Fancy meeting you here," he said. "I was actually about to go looking for you."

"Good to see we're on the same page. I figured we could talk strategy before the Game. Or just hang out. Anything, really." She laughed, but it was a sad, strained little sound. "I could use the distraction."

Darian almost lied and said that he didn't need a distraction, because he wasn't afraid. But something in her voice disarmed him. Probably the sincerity. So far, she'd seemed pretty closed-off, not necessarily rude, but not entirely honest. Her walls were pretty high, and it was nice to see a glimpse of her true self.

He nodded slowly, swinging his entire upper-body with the movement. "I could use one, too."

"Let's go find Emery. I'm sure he'd feel left-out if he knew we were meeting without him."

"Oh yeah, because he's missing _so _much." Darian had meant it to sound sarcastic, but his voice carried no sharpness. He'd have to save his fighting edge for the bloodbath. "Yeah, okay. Let's go find him."

* * *

**Owen Blackwood, District Four**

* * *

Owen had awoken that morning feeling rather ill. Fear of death apparently gave him a sour stomach, which in turn made him try to avoid human interaction more than usual.

Unfortunately, almost immediately after entering the training center lobby, he'd been wrangled into a "group talk" with his allies. As much as he liked them, he sure as hell didn't want to talk to them, at least not right this second. He just wanted some time to get his head straight, but Brand and Enoch wanted to discuss bloodbath strategy before the Game started, so he put up with it. They really did need a plan.

Enoch leaned forward in his chair, fingers laced. "So if we can't find each other or get split up at the cornucopia - assuming there even _is_ a cornucopia - we'll have to meet somewhere else. But we don't know what the landscape will be like, so we'll have to stick around the launch area until we're all together."

"Unless someone else is trying to kill us," Brand said. "I hope we're allowed to run away if someone's coming after us with a knife."

Enoch gave her a dead-eyed glare. "Yes, Brand. You should run if someone's trying to kill you. All I'm saying is that we should stick in the same general area, so that we can find each other more easily."

"Makes sense," Owen said, trying to ignore a headache that was creeping up from the base of his skull. It was doing nothing to improve his sunny demeanor. "Survival first, find each other second."

"Exactly."

Enoch and Brand continued talking, but Owen couldn't force himself to pay attention. He kept having visions of the bloodbath, images of gore and the sound of dying kids dredged up from previous years. Like the year his brother died.

A flame of resentment flickered in his gut, something he'd tried to pretend wasn't there. Clark had volunteered for the Ninety-Sixth Game, and because the gamemakers had a tendency to rig the reapings, he was almost certainly the reason why Owen had been reaped into the One-Hundredth. His brother had made it to the final three, only to be killed by Ivory Bellefonte. Seeing him make it so far, only to be slaughtered minutes before the end of the Game, hurt so much more than if he'd died first, because his family had started to hope. The eldest Blackwood son had a real chance. But he'd died anyways.

Clark's death had almost broken their family, and even though they'd managed to pull themselves back from the brink after that first terrible year, things were never the same. Now, here Owen was. Dead man walking.

He felt bad for his sister and his parents. Two brothers, two sons, caught up in the same stupid Game. One dead, and one whose fate hung in the balance.

At least Clark had a chance to say goodbye.

They'd just stolen Owen off of the street like a stray dog. Maybe that's all he was to them. Either way, it pissed him off. Not only had they dragged him into a death match, they hadn't even let him say goodbye to his loved ones, a right that had been granted to every other tribute for the past ninety-nine years. It wasn't fair.

Then again, nothing was fair. Otherwise, the Hunger Games would have never been anything more than a wet dream for some sick bastard back in the Old Capitol.

"Owen?"

Someone waved their hand in front of his face, snapping him out of his thoughts. "Yeah?"

Brand re-crossed her arms. "Have a nice trip?"

He shrugged. "Not really. Just thinking about my impending mortality."

Nodding, Enoch said, "That's what this discussion is for. We need to get this stuff off of our chests now so it isn't weighing us down in the Game."

Owen narrowed his eyes. Enoch hadn't ever struck him as the touchy-feely type, at least not until today. But how much did he really know about his ally? They'd only met each other three days ago, so it was probably fair to say that Owen knew virtually nothing about Enoch, which meant he was placing his survival in the hands of a stranger.

That thought did not comfort him.

"Sorry," Owen said. "I'm not in the mood to contribute."

Enoch pursed his lips, but it wasn't really a frown. "Fair enough. If you ever feel like it, though, feel free."

Owen nodded and gave a half-smile. He wasn't going to take them up on the offer.

* * *

**Tullus Marl, District Two**

* * *

Tributes milled around the lobby, talking in groups or wandering aimlessly, and some of them, like Armand, even sleeping.

Tullus suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. The fact that the kid was asleep meant that he wasn't talking, or harassing anyone, which was a blessing in and of itself. Ace had already tried to wake the boy from Eleven, but Polly had stopped him. They wanted to enjoy the peace for as long as possible.

Ace and Armand had come as a package deal, and kinda just showed up and invited themselves into the alliance. As nice as Polly was, her inability to tell people off wasn't one of her more appealing traits. Of course, she'd also brought in Niko, who almost made up for Armand. Almost. That kid had a talent for making himself the most annoying person in any given situation.

That didn't mean Tullus wanted to see Armand come to harm. In fact, quite the opposite. He wanted Armand to live a fulfilled and productive life, just so long as Tullus never had to interact with him ever again. But Armand had to die. That's how this whole system worked. Or failed, depending on the perspective.

Tullus had nominally accepted the necessity of his allies' deaths. The fact existed, no denying it. But he hadn't _really_ accepted it. Loss of human life was something he'd encountered only once before, and he'd done his damnedest to never return to that gnarled scar in his mind. Dealing with the deaths of four other people, most of whom bordered on being his friends, required him to pry that ugly little crevice wide open, and while he didn't want to stare into that abyss, he definitely didn't want that abyss staring back into him. It was too dark. Black as sin.

"When do you think they'll call us in for preparation?" Polly asked, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "I'm getting antsy just sitting here."

"Soon enough." Tullus absentmindedly gnawed on a fingernail. "Don't tell me you're anxious for the Game to start."

"Of course not. But it's better to do something rather than nothing. I just want the bloodbath to be over with, so long as I'm still alive afterwards." She wrapped her hands around her elbows and looked down at the ground. "I want all of us to still be alive."

Tullus nodded. Even Armand. None of them deserved this.

Except maybe Tullus himself.

He chased the thought away as soon as it appeared. No use dwelling on the past, at least not now. He didn't have enough energy to waste it all on things he couldn't change.

"I'm worried that the sponsors won't sent much our way," Niko said, head hanging low.

Tullus agreed. Without the interviews, the tributes hadn't had a chance to give the sponsors any insight into their personalities, non-combat capabilities, or alliances. Everyone else was running solely on training scores, and once the Game started and the tributes' faces were broadcast to every home in Panem, physical appearance would play a large part, as well.

Even so, he'd still rather forego the interview. The stress-to-payout ratio wasn't worth it.

"I think that, when the sponsors see the size of our alliance and how capable we are, they'll definitely send us some gifts," Polly said, ever the optimist.

With a smile that was mostly genuine, Tullus said, "I hope you're right."

Like every other alliance, they needed all the help they could get.

* * *

**Medea Torell, District Two**

* * *

Evelyn didn't volunteer much in the way of conversation, which made Medea the slightest bit uncomfortable. She respected the need for silence, but she couldn't tell if the total absence of words indicated some sort of dissatisfaction on the part of her ally, or perhaps irritation. Maybe Evelyn already regretted her decision to ally with Medea? Or maybe she was just nervous?

Or maybe Medea was over thinking everything, as per usual.

"So," she started, but faltered when Evelyn shot her a cold glower. "Do you want to talk about strategy? Anything, really?"

"If you want to."

"So, for the bloodbath, how do you want to handle that?"

"Meet up. Take some supplies. Get out alive. Kill anyone that gets in the way of those objectives."

"Concise. I like it."

Evelyn refused to make eye-contact. "Uh huh."

Medea leaned against the marble pillar, rolling a few words around in her mind, unwilling to say them out loud until she was absolutely sure they would at the very least engage her ally. Even if the silence was just a defense mechanism, it made Medea wonder if she was doing something wrong.

"What if we have to kill someone stronger than ourselves?"

"You got a 9 in training. I think we'll be fine. And if we aren't, there isn't much we can do other than run or fight and hope for the best."

Medea considered this. "So I'm the fighter, then?"

"Seeing as I got a 5, I thought that was pretty obvious. I'll do what I can, of course, but I'm not trained like you are."

With a nod, Medea sat down beside her ally, though not too close. "Fair enough."

At the other end of the room, a burly man with bright blue hair entered through the double-doors, accompanied by two peacekeepers. Medea recognized him as one of the trainers, but he looked entirely different in his formal attire than he had in his training gear. Judging by the way he carried himself, he meant business.

"Tributes!" he cried, his words rendered tinny and rough by his megaphone, "you have been summoned by your stylists. It is time to prep for launch. Please form an orderly single-file line by district, Zero in front, Thirteen in back. Girls first, boys second. Chop chop!"

Medea cast a final glance at Evelyn. "Good luck."

Something very close to warmth played at the corners of Evelyn's mouth. "You too."

Happy that she'd made a bit of progress with her ally, Medea wove her way through the crowd of disorganized tributes, and wedged herself between Florian and Tullus.

Someone tapped on her shoulder, and she turned around to face her district partner.

With an ironic grin, he said, "May the odds be ever in your favor, Medea."

Cocking her head to the side, she tapped her finger against the side of her mouth. "Do I detect sarcasm?"

He held his thumb and forefinger a few millimeters apart. "Just a bit. But the sentiment is the same." With a softer smile, he said, "Really, though. I hope you do well."

She felt herself smile a bit too wide, maybe from nerves, maybe out of joy that another person would wish her well in such a dark time. It was nice to have people who cared. "I hope you do well, too."

The unspoken caveat being, _But I still hope I do better._

That part didn't need saying.

* * *

**Benjamin Stavros, District Ten**

* * *

Benjamin stood in the empty room for at least five minutes before a bizarre, colorful man swept through the door, accompanied by three other equally strange assistants. "Good morning, young Benjamin Stavros. I do apologize for my tardiness, but better fashionably late than completely absent, right?" Resting a hand on his chest, he said. "My name is Xavier, and I'll be your stylist for today. These lovely people are Petunia, Iago, and Herodia. They're your prep team."

He gestured to the man and two women accompanying him. They'd each tweaked their clothes and hairstyles to look a bit more like butterflies, which Benjamin found oddly endearing. It looked like they had a team theme.

"If you have any complaints, just let us know, but in all honesty we'll probably tell you to suck it up. Now, clothes off," the stylist said, pointing a bright red fingernail at Benjamin's chest.

His face grew warm. "All of them?"

The stylist rolled his eyes. "Unless you plan on going into the arena with wet underwear."

Benjamin considered this, and promptly decided to get over it. It's not like these people hadn't seen a bunch of other naked tributes before. He'd have to deal with far worse things if he intended on making it home in anything other than a pine box.

Reluctantly, he stripped down to bare flesh, goose bumps prickling up along his arms and legs. He stood, shivering in the cold room, as the stylist eyed him up and down, nodding in approval at Benjamin's physique. "Not bad. Not bad at all." Snapping his fingers at the prep team, he said, "But you still need a lot of work. Hair removal, mostly, but some exfoliation would do you good. Go lie down on the table."

Benjamin did as he was told, and the prep team descended upon him like a swarm of locusts, scrubbing his skin raw and plucking every "unnecessary" hair, which apparently meant all of them.

"Okay," Xavier finally said, after Benjamin had convinced himself they'd torn his skin off. "That's enough of that. Stand up and turn around. I need to make sure we didn't miss anything."

"Are you always this demanding?"

"Not usually, no." Xavier sighed, and there was no mistaking the nostalgia in his voice. "But since it's the last Game, I'll never get to be a stylist again. I have to cram years of styling into this one day, and you're just the tribute unfortunate enough to get the brunt of it. I'm only here to help you, though, so do as I say."

"Fine."

Arms out, Benjamin turned around, more self-conscious than ever, and the fact that he was this guy's last tribute didn't help. In the scheme of things it was no big deal, but it was one more thing on top of the shit pile he'd been buried under. As much as he wanted to troop through this, he was about three straws away from breaking the camel's back.

"You look good." Xavier took a step back, hand outstretched, and Petunia gave him a pile of folded clothes. He took it and held it out to Benjamin. "Put these on. I have something I need to attend to, but I'll be back in ten minutes to make some final adjustments."

They left him standing naked in the middle of the room, alone with his uniform and ten minutes of anticipation. He almost wished they'd stayed.

* * *

**Ace Wilder, District Twelve**

* * *

His eyebrows still stung from where the prep team had seemingly plucked half of them away. At least the clothes were comfortable, but that hardly made up for the abuse he'd suffered so far. They'd scraped off the entire first layer of his skin and covered him head-to-toe in moisturizers that were apparently made of alcohol and lemon juice. This "beautification" stuff was bullshit.

"Alright, Mr. Wilder, just one last thing." The stylist grabbed his forearm, a syringe clutched in one hand, and gave him something that was supposed to be a smile. "This will only hurt a little bit."

He flinched as the needle pricked the inside of his elbow and forced a torrent of cold liquid through his veins. When the stylist let go of his arm, he drew it back, glaring at her. "What was that for?"

"Well, it's for a lot of things. It stops hair growth for the next few weeks, since we like our tributes clean-shaven, and it also has something in it that's supposed to stop your face from turning too red in the cold. It's mostly so you'll look good on camera."

"So, the arena is going to be cold?"

"Presumably, but I don't know anything for sure. You'll just have to wait and see like everyone else."

He fell silent, mulling over her answer. He didn't like cold places. He also didn't like killing fields, but that was another matter entirely.

"Well, Ace, I'll see you at the launch bay. In the meantime, try not to get into too much trouble, okay?" She winked, but Ace didn't feel like winking back.

She ushered him out of the room, and two waiting peacekeepers escorted him down the hall and up the stairs to the roof access. They opened the door, and a whirl of warm air surged through the hallway, kicked up by a huge hovercraft sitting on the middle of the training center's roof. He was the first tribute to arrive, but the others weren't too far behind.

Brand Coil and Niko Sundita approached from another corner of the roof, and Ace waved at his ally. Niko waved back, but judging by his sullen expression, it was more out of habit than anything else. Ace didn't resent him for it. Everyone was sullen here, even if they chose not to show it. He just figured that he might as well be as nice to his friend as possible, maybe bring a smile to his face, though it hadn't worked.

The peacekeepers instructed them to board the craft, and they filed into the hovercraft's hull district by district. Ace sat across from Adara, who acknowledged his existence with a flash of a smile, then went back to ignoring him. He frowned. He'd already apologized for the vase thing. What more could he do?

It probably didn't matter, anyways. They were in different alliances, and in a place where everyone was out to kill you, that meant he shouldn't interact with her anymore.

So he didn't.

A woman in a white lab coat walked down the aisle, a huge silver needle clasped in one hand, and her assistant carried a tray with little glowing contraptions. He gulped. According to his mentor, the implantation of the chip really hurt.

The woman eventually stopped in front of him, eyebrows raised with an implied demand.

Slowly, he held out his arm, and she clamped onto it with surprising force, digging her nails into the soft flesh of his elbow. The needle bit deep, and he had to bite his tongue as the little chip dug itself a cavity under his skin.

"You're ready to go," the woman said, patting his shoulder.

Funny. 'Ready' seemed to be the only thing he _didn't_ feel.

* * *

**Damian Ridge, District Five**

* * *

"Well," his stylist said, circling around him as if he were a statue in a museum, "the uniform does say a bit about the arena." She reached out and pinched his jacket, rubbing the padded material between her fingers. "I'd say you're in for some cold weather, but there isn't a wind-breaking layer, so there probably won't be any gale-force winds." Glancing down at his boots, she added, "Those won't give you much traction, so I doubt you'll be hiking up any mountains."

He nodded, playing with the edges of his sleeves. Somewhere cold and flat. That's probably where the gamemakers were sending him. Tundra? Possibly. He couldn't remember if there had been an arena like that before. The adrenaline was doing weird things to his memory.

Over the intercom, a soft voice said, "Two minutes to launch."

His gut clenched, and the stylist patted his upper arm. "You're all set."

Damian nodded, but said nothing as he stepped into the launch tube. The mounting fear had stolen all of his words.

He took a deep breath, eyes fluttering shut as the clear tube sunk down around him. He had allies. Florian knew how to fight, and Danique was smart. They could do this. They could survive the bloodbath, _would_ survive the bloodbath, and for now, that was the most important thing. They'd deal with everything else afterwards.

The pedestal began to rise, and his heart skipped a beat. Eyes flying open, he braced himself against the sides of the tube, and his stylist gave him a bright smile and a thumbs-up. He tried to smile in turn, but it felt more like a grimace.

Above him, a circular panel slid back, exposing a slate-gray ceiling and letting in a flood of bluish half-light and frigid air. His breath floated away in a cloud of white, and a few snowflakes drifted down and landed on his jacket, contrasting sharply against the sheer black fabric. One landed on his eyelashes, and he wiped it away.

As his head rose above the ground, his eyebrows drew together in confusion. Bars. He was looking at a grid of iron bars. Beyond the bars was a wide space, then another room, also blocked off by bars. Inside, the girl from Eleven rose, and the plates jostled them in unison as they clicked into place. The pieces fit together even before Damian saw the stacked cots and barred windows.

It was a jail cell.

On the wall beside him, the number 60 appeared, projected onto the concrete by a tiny black apparatus embedded in the ceiling.

59.

58.

57.

Small piles of snow had swept themselves into the corners of the room, and a number of stray flakes littered the floor. A shiver ran up his spine, not entirely due to the cold.

He wondered if his mother was watching. If anything, she had at least one holo-screen turned to the Hunger Games since it was required by law, but whether or not she was actually paying attention depended on how much she still hated him.

26.

25.

24.

Who was he kidding? She'd never _not_ hate him. He'd forsaken the empire that his parents built, turned his back on their legacy and all the time and effort they'd invested. She had every right to hate him, and though he couldn't blame her, he didn't regret his decision.

3.

2.

1.

_It's time._

* * *

"_Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the One Hundredth Annual Hunger Games! May the odds be ever in your favor!"_

* * *

**And that concludes the pre-game chapters. Faster update than last time, huh? Next up: the bloodbath.**

**Tributes start dying next chapter. It's an inevitable part of every SYOT, and I apologize if yours is among them. **

**On a tangentially related note, I've noticed a pretty sharp drop-off in reviews over the past few chapters. It probably has a lot to do with the sporadic time periods between updates, but it does hurt my motivation. Please let me know if I'm handling the overall story in a unsatisfactory way. That being said, I really appreciate the people who are still reviewing! You guys are lovely.  
**

**Now that the first round of deaths is close, I have a few questions for everyone.**

_**-Who do you think will die in the bloodbath?**_

_**-Who do you want to die?**_

**As always, thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think!**


	11. Here and Now

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Armand Castillo, District Eleven**

* * *

Armand wrapped his hands around his arms and shivered, watching his breath billow away in thin clouds of white. He hated the cold. District Eleven rarely had to deal with it more than a few weeks a year, and never anything this bad.

The jacket, heavy and thick as it was, helped, though not as much as Armand would have liked. His teeth were starting to chatter.

On the wall to his left, the numbers were dwindling. Only a few seconds left.

He rubbed his freezing hands together and grinned. He was going to win this Game, no matter what sort of horrible things he'd have to do. Killing, maiming, betrayal. As awful as he knew it was, a part of him actually looked forward to it, especially the part where he won. Because he was going to win, no question.

He just had to outlast the rest of these losers.

When the clock hit zero, a grating buzz echoed through the massive room, and the bars slid back with a violent clang. They were free.

Armand wasn't the first to leave his cell, but he was the first to reach the collection of metal tables and supplies that passed for a Cornucopia. Through some sheer dumb luck, he had been placed closest to the supplies. It was better than his birthday.

He swiped a dagger off of the table and lunged for a particularly well-stocked backpack resting against a bench, but Nynette reached it first. Crying out with indignation, he tried to stop her, fingers slipping across the sheer fabric of her coat, but she was too fast. With trembling hands, she hitched it on her shoulder without sparing him a second glance.

Bitch. Refusing to even _acknowledge_ him.

Dagger held high, he lunged at her back, catching the bulk of the backpack and pulling her down to the ground. Before she had the chance to fight back, he drove the blade into her chest, catching her somewhere in the heart. Through the handle, he felt the reverberation of each dying beat as her life dwindled away.

She didn't scream. Just let out one hoarse, tear-stained gasp.

And then she was dead.

Huh. Armand had expected to feel something… more. He felt a little bad, but not really. She had to die. It was just the nature of the Game.

Across the room, Ace, emboldened by Armand's example, had cornered Maelyn with the apparent intent to kill. He jumped forward, she jumped back. She leapt to the side, he followed. He swiped a knife at her, she twisted out of the way.

"Tackle her!" Armand shouted, not bothering to wipe the blood from his dagger. He stood and cupped his hands around his mouth. "Don't let her get away!"

Whether Ace heard him or not, he didn't know, but Ace's knife made contact with Maelyn's arm. She screamed and wrapped a hand around the injury, which distracted her long enough for Ace to bury the blade in her neck, all the way to the hilt.

She stopped screaming. Ace yanked the knife from her neck and it came free with a spurt of blood. Her hand fell to her side and she swayed once before falling to the ground in a heap, eyes open and limbs bent at awkward angles. Like a rag doll.

"Nice job," Armand said, running up to Ace and slapping him on the shoulder. "Got her good."

"Yeah," Ace said. Armand didn't notice the tremor in his ally's rust-stained hands. "Thanks."

He didn't notice much of anything, really. He was having far too much fun.

* * *

**Dabria Laine, District Four**

* * *

From the Cornucopia, which wasn't anything more than an intricate stack of metal crates and concrete tables, Dabria snatched a crossbow and a quiver full of arrows. Tributes were clashing all around the room, sending up cries of pain and panic. Two were already dead, their bodies strewn across the cold floor.

She spotted the boys from One and Zero fighting over a bag of supplies, oblivious to the chaos around them, and Dabria leveled the crossbow's sights with Florain's chest. A brief flicker of guilt stayed her hand, but he'd earned one of the highest training scores, and she probably wouldn't get another chance to take him out so easily. He had to die.

The arrow tore through his right shoulder and he staggered back with a cry of pain. Enoch dropped the bag in surprise, looking around for the source of the attack. He paled when he saw her reloading the crossbow. Blindly snatching another backpack, Enoch darted into the crowd and disappeared among the backlit shadows.

Florian leaned against the table, clutching the base of the injury as blood seeped through his fingers. Dabria marched toward him, grabbed a sword off of the table, blade grating against the stone surface, and twirled it in her hand. He saw her approach and tried to dodge, but he didn't move fast enough to avoid the edge of the blade. It dug into his neck, sending him to his knees. His eyes met hers, and the guilt flared again, but she buried it underneath her desire to survive.

She raised the sword above her head. To his credit, Florian didn't flinch as the blade arced down.

On the other side of the table, the girl from One screamed. Dabria pulled the bloody sword out of Florian's neck and pointed the end of the blade at Danique. _Come closer, and you're next_.

Danique didn't miss the message.

The girl from Twelve - Adara? Something like that - came careening down the aisle, spear in hand. Dabria considered tripping her and shooting her, but the girl had come and gone before Dabria had the chance to load a single arrow.

"There you are," Charne said, peeking out from behind a column of weapon crates. "I've been looking all over for you. Have you seen Aviana?"

Dabria shook her head. "She's probably off chasing butterflies."

"Oh, give her some credit." Though Charne stuck out her tongue and made a show of being disappointed in Dabria, there was no mistaking the quiver in her voice. She was worried, about herself and about her allies.

Dabria liked her a bit more for that.

"Come on," she said, tugging at Zero's sleeve. "Let's go find her."

They headed up the aisle, which left Dabria feeling particularly exposed. All around, tributes were fighting one another, and though most seemed like they wouldn't end in murder, at the opposite end of the room, the boys from Nine and Ten seemed pretty intent on ending each other.

Benjamin slammed Samson against the wall, again and again, until the boy from Nine jammed his fingers into Benjamin's eyes. Ten roared in pain and threw Samson to the ground. He pinned Samson's shoulders with his knees, clasped his hands around the boy's throat, and pressed harder and harder until something snapped, audible even from Dabria's distance.

"Shit," she whispered, more out of respect than fear. She reached for her crossbow, but Charne grabbed her hand and pulled her along.

"We'll have time to fight later. Right now, we just need to find Aviana and get out of the war zone."

Reluctantly, Dabria agreed. Allies first, enemies later.

* * *

**Evelyn Arellis, District Eight**

* * *

Evelyn had done a good enough job of avoiding the main commotion so far. The main knot of tributes had begun to dissipate as alliances melted into the arena. A few had died, too, and a few more would die once the day was done.

Someone let up a shrill cry at the other end of the room. Evelyn's head snapped around, and she watched Medea tumble over Denim, a sword clasped between them. Despite her best efforts, Evelyn could not look away. She cared, even if she didn't want to.

Denim kneed Medea in the chest, and Evelyn winced. The sword slipped to the side, but Medea twisted her hand, hyper-extending Denim's wrists, and the balance of power shifted as she yanked the weapon from him. She rolled away, and before Evelyn's district partner could recover, the sword came down on his neck, cleaving it nearly in two.

Evelyn furrowed her eyebrows. Seeing him like that… it made her mad.

Wasn't she supposed to feel sad? Wasn't she supposed to have some sort of district partner loyalty? Sure, she'd spent the last few days around him, but he'd hardly made an effort to socialize, and even if he had, she didn't care about him anyways. So why did his death piss her off so much?

A sudden and unexpected bout of nausea gripped her gut. Denim was dead. And her ally had killed him.

Without thinking, Evelyn slipped between the aisles and turned a corner into a little alcove, hoping to find it empty. It was not.

The girl from Ten had heard her approach, but hadn't been able to escape in time. At the sight of Evelyn, she leaned against the metal boxes, arms pressed against the makeshift wall. Strands of blonde hair had come loose of the braid, floating around her head in an unkempt halo. The dagger trembled in her grip.

"Move out of the way," she said, taking an uncertain step forward, as if she could intimidate Evelyn by putting on airs of confidence. "I'm warning you."

Evelyn didn't move. "Don't wave weapons around," she said, "unless you're willing to use them."

Aviana's eyes darted to the side, past Evelyn, and her mouth twitched with a pained scowl. "Have it your way, then."

Ten darted forward. Evelyn turned and rammed her shoulder into the girl's chest, sending her back a few faltering steps. Aviana again tried to shove Evelyn to the side, but she met with the same bone-rattling shoulder to the chest. Again and again, she tried the same tactic, and again and again, Evelyn repelled her.

The girl wasn't trying to win, and she definitely didn't want to injure or kill. She was just trying to escape.

And that's why she lost.

When she darted around in another attempt to sidestep the obstruction, Evelyn didn't use her arms or shoulders to stop the girl. This time, she used her knife. Once in the arm, once in the chest, once in the neck.

Aviana screamed, but it didn't last long. The drop in blood pressure brought about by the wound in her neck knocked her out pretty fast.

_One down, _Evelyn thought.

She shook her head, grabbed a nearby pack, and started filling it up with all the useful supplies available in the little crate enclosure. Food, water, flares, rope, a few little vials that she didn't have time to identify, matches, canteens, purification tablets, medical bandages, protein powder, and a pair of high-end gloves. Not too bad. She'd probably have to make two trips between the Cornucopia and wherever she and Medea set up camp.

Now she just had to find Medea.

Stepping over Aviana's body, as well as her widening pool of blood, Evelyn allowed herself a moment of guilty remorse. The girl didn't have to die today, but she had to die at some point. Evelyn had just expedited the process.

Pretty girl. Pretty dead.

So it goes.

* * *

**Tullus Marl, District Two**

* * *

Polly and Niko lingered at the edge of the Cornucopia room, weighed down with myriad supplies. They beckoned for Tullus to join them, but he waved them off. He still had to find Armand and Ace and drag them along.

Ace still hung around the Cornucopia, stuffing as much as he could into a rucksack nearly as big as he was.

And Armand, cocky idiot he was, weapon in hand, was cruising for a bruising. Having already killed one unlucky tribute, he had set his sights on someone a bit more challenging. Tullus watched him rush toward Tristan Vorassi, completely disregarding the fact that he, the short stack brat who _maybe_ weighed one hundred pounds soaking wet, stood little chance against the large adult male from District Six.

Armand got in one good hit, slicing Tristan across the upper arm, but he only got the one strike. Tristan turned, lips pulled back in a sneer. Tullus balked. That was the look of an angry animal.

"Armand, stop!"

But it was too late.

The sword sliced upwards, catching the boy on the underside of his jaw. Armand stumbled backward and his hand reflexively twitched toward the wound, eyes wide and unfocused. His foot caught on a fallen spear, and he fell.

He didn't get up.

Tristan took a faltering step backward, hand clasped over his mouth. The sword's edge glimmered crimson under the prisons harsh lights.

The edges of Tullus's vision pulsed red.

Armand was dead. His ally. Gone. And Tristan had done it.

Fuck, he'd _hated _the kid, but this death was so wrong, so unfair.

He lunged forward, machete in hand, fixated on the boy from Six. Tristan had to pay for what he'd done.

He fought a lot better than what Tullus recalled from training. Parry, sidestep, attack, block, attack. The sword nicked Tullus's forearm, deep enough to draw his attention for a valuable split-second. Tristan took the opportunity to turn and run.

_Coward. _

Tullus sprinted after the murderer, vision constricted to a point on the back of Tristan's neck. He'd strike there. Sever the spine, kill the bastard quick and clean, even though he deserved so much worse. He deserved to suffer, writhe in agony, bite through his tongue to distract from the pain that Tullus wanted so badly to inflict.

He'd sworn he wouldn't do it again, but his circumstances had changed.

Tristan vaulted over a table and Tullus followed, but in his rage-induced myopia, he toppled into another nameless tribute, slamming them both into the next table over. Bewildered hands pressed against him, violated his personal space, which only angered him further.

"Get off-"

The other tribute only had enough time to say those two words before the machete dug into their gut, angled up, probably hitting something important. The other tribute gasped, and as the red in his vision began to fade, Tullus realized that he'd stabbed Damian. Damian was a decent person. Didn't deserve a machete to the gut.

Tullus pulled away, lips trembling with an unspoken apology, but what could he say? Nothing could fix such a catastrophic mistake.

Damian's chest expanded and contracted with tiny, bird-sized breaths, mouth agape and skin pallid under the harsh florescent lights. He looked down at the ground, one hand grasping at the wound, the other fumbling for his backpack. He perked up then, a manic gleam in his eye, and sprinted off into the shadowed periphery of the room, probably to join with his allies.

_Must be the adrenaline_, Tullus thought. _Hell of a thing. _

Shame prickling along his scalp, Tullus squeezed his eyes shut. It had been an accident. He'd just have to be better next time. Couldn't lose control like that. He hadn't even liked Armand. But that didn't give Tristan the right to kill the kid.

_Even if it was in self-defense?_

He shook the thought away and surveyed the Cornucopia. Lots of dead kids, but no Tristan to be found.

"Fuck." He kicked at the cement floor, scuffing the bottom of his boot. The bastard was gone.

* * *

**Charne Valle, District Zero**

* * *

"Aviana's dead," she said, lips numb. Just words. A stated fact, lacking understanding or belief.

Aviana couldn't be dead. She was sixteen. Sometimes snide, but never cruel. Healthy, happy. Funny. Alive, too. That one was important.

She had been alive. Evelyn had changed that. But Charne couldn't hate Evelyn. Not really. If it hadn't been Evelyn, it would have been someone else, because Aviana had to die. Simple as that. Charne knew this, but she, as of yet, did not understand it. It hadn't quite sunk in, this loss of human life.

Which made Dabria's reaction all the more unsettling. Not only had she killed another tribute, she had barely reacted to Aviana's death. No tears, no cry of despair. Just a simple nod when Charne pointed out the body.

Charne didn't know if she felt disquiet or gratitude, or some unholy combination of the two. For now, she figured it was good that at least one of them could keep it together.

"Yes," Dabria said. She adjusted the strap of her backpack without looking at Charne. "And if you plan on living any longer than she did, we should probably get a move on."

For once in her life, Charne did as she was told without so much as a thought of backsass. Trembling hands and brimming eyes, yes, but no scathing sarcasm, no cruel remarks, no playful wit. The Game had begun, but there was no time for play. Not even any time to mourn. And why would Charne mourn, anyways? She'd known Aviana for three days, and that wasn't enough time to actually _know _someone. Maybe her death was for the better.

Or maybe it was just wishful thinking.

"Wait," Dabria said, holding her hand out, dragging Charne from her thoughts.

Far ahead, another group had set-up camp inside a barred cell. Three stood to the side, obscured by the curve of the cellblock hall, but the fourth stood half in, half out of the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the iron bars. A big 10 hung between his shoulder blades, white numbers against black fabric. The group hadn't seen the two girls creeping up upon them.

"And so we meet again." Dabria raised her crossbow and crept forward, as far as the shadows would allow, setting her sights on Benjamin's back.

"No!" Charne whispered, pushing the weapon down. "He's Aviana's district partner!"

"Yeah? And?"

Every muscle in Charne's face fell in unison. The other tributes had no idea what was coming. It was dirty. It was wrong. How could Dabria not see that?

The girl from Four leaned a little closer. "He may be from the same district, but he isn't our ally. He's a threat." She raised the crossbow again, and this time, Charne did not stop her. "He scored an 8. What did _you_ score?"

_The numbers aren't everything_, Charne wanted to say.

But they still meant a lot.

"It's pretty far," Charne said, voice monotonous with resignation. "Think you can even hit him?"

Dabria crept a few feet forward, steadied herself against the wall, and drew a deep breath. "I guess we'll find out," she whispered.

The first arrow missed him by a foot, clattering against the wall at the end of the hallway. He turned toward the source of the sound, and upon realizing that someone had shot at him, he spun to face Dabria and Charne. Maybe if he'd acted half of a second sooner, he could have lived.

The second arrow struck him in the shoulder, probably avoiding anything important, so Dabria scuttled forward a few more feet and fired the third arrow, which struck him in the chest, between the wings of his ribcage. He staggered back, and an ugly, strangled gasp carried on the frigid air. He wrapped his hand around the injury and fell against the wall. It was impossible to see how much he was bleeding, especially through the black fabric, but judging by the placement of the arrow, he didn't have much time.

"Nice shot," Charne said, surprised by the lack of emotion in her voice. This made, what? Five deaths? Five that she'd witnessed, at least. There were bound to be a lot more.

Benjamin's allies, finally reacting to the attack, rushed forward and dragged him back into the safety of the cell. One remained in the hallway, just staring at them, sword drawn. Even from this distance, Charne saw the sadness in his eyes, the resignation in the set of his mouth. Some anger, but mostly… acceptance. Somehow, his lack of animosity made it worse.

Dabria slung the crossbow strap across her shoulder. "Let's go."

"What, you aren't gonna shoot him?" Charne narrowed her eyes. "Or does he need to have his back turned, too?"

"Don't underestimate the element of surprise," Dabria said, voice suddenly cold. "It can make all the difference in the world."

_Yeah. Just ask Benjamin._

* * *

**Danique Vittori, District One**

* * *

Damian ran beside her, breaths ragged, hand clamped over his stomach. Danique knew that he'd fought with Tullus, but they could check out the injury later. Now, they had to focus on escaping the Cornucopia and finding a safe place to hide while they sorted everything out. With Florian dead, they'd ironically lost the only person in their alliance who actually knew how to fight, and though Danique missed him, she'd let herself mourn the loss later. First, they had to find a place where they could catch their breath.

As they turned a corner, Damian almost fell, hands slipping across the stone to keep himself from crashing into the wall. They stumbled into a patch of light, and Danique flinched at the sight of her ally. His skin was almost the same color as the concrete, freckles like dirt on porcelain. He hadn't looked so bad at the Cornucopia.

"Are we safe?" he asked, eyes wide and unfocused. His hand fell away, slicked with blood, and he took a faltering step forward. "Are we…?"

He fell.

"Damian?" she said, voice tight and hardly above a whisper. She managed to catch him before he hit the ground, but his momentum dragged her down to her knees.

She rolled him onto his back, and her hands came away red. She hadn't known the injury was this bad. Blood had soaked through the front of his jacket and a smattering had trickled onto the floor, where it seeped into the porous stone. He convulsed once and tried to sit up, fingers digging deep into her arm, but he didn't manage to rise more than a few inches before sinking back down with a strangled gasp.

His pupils started to dilate and his grip loosened. With a soft thud, his head rolled back and came to rest against the concrete, heavy-lidded eyes staring up at the ceiling. He gave one long, low sigh, and did not breathe again.

"Damian, come on." She shook his shoulders, even though, in some logical and still-functioning part of her mind, she knew it was futile. But he couldn't be dead. Not yet. Not while Danique was still alive. She bit back a sob as she pressed her fingers to the underside of his neck. No pulse. She did the same to his wrist. No pulse. "Please, Damian."

His image blurred, and she leaned back against the wall, pressing her palms against her eyes. This wasn't happening. It couldn't be.

She'd been prepared to suffer the worst physical trauma imaginable. She'd even been prepared to die. But this? She hadn't been prepared to outlive her allies.

Both Florian and Damian were gone.

She was alone.

* * *

**Brand Coil, District Thirteen**

* * *

She dabbed Owen's eyebrow, and he turned away, wincing. The wound wasn't very deep, but the girl from Twelve had managed to leave a cut that ran from the upper ridge of his eye socket down to his cheekbone. Brand was pretty sure the blade had missed some important nerves and blood vessels, though just barely.

"Stand still," she said, smacking her ally on the shoulder. "I can't fix it if you don't let me."

"Sorry," he said, and sat down to put himself on her level. "Just hurts."

"Yeah. It's your face telling you not to mess with people who have knives."

He pulled his lower lip taut and ran his tongue across the back of his teeth, twitching from the pain, but staying within range. "I would have never guessed. Consider me enlightened."

Brand rummaged around in the medical bag that Enoch had picked up and withdrew a cotton ball and peroxide. Owen hissed when it touched the wound, but otherwise endured it. At the bottom of the bag, she found a tube of antibacterial ointment and briefly wondered what other nifty things the gamemakers had left lying around. They could go on a scavenger hunt later.

She didn't know how much to use - didn't know anything about medical assistance, really - but Owen needed help, so she spitballed it. A big glop looked like the right amount. And in any case, it was better to have a bit too much ointment than a bit too little.

As she smoothed the bandage onto his face, a cannon shot sounded across the arena, followed by another and another, until nine in total had sounded.

_Nineteen left. _

"Bloodbath's over," Owen said, rising to his feet and running his fingers along his cheek, checking Brand's handiwork. "Wonder who died."

Something clattered at the distant end of the hallway. Brand frowned and grabbed her spear. Probably Enoch, but no harm in being prepared. "We'll find out tonight."

Owen nodded, and silence stretched between them. A few snowflakes drifted in from the cell window, past which a cloudy sky stretched into eternity. It probably wasn't real, but it felt oppressive all the same. Brand pulled off her glove and wrapped her hand around her nose, willing warmth to return to the frigid flesh. She needed to find a scarf. Or a ski mask, but that fashion statement was a bit bold for her taste.

"Thanks," Owen said. Brand almost jumped at the sound of his voice. "For fixing it."

She waved him off. "I didn't fix anything. I just patched it. You'll have to clean it once a day and keep it protected until it fixes itself."

"Either way. Thanks."

Before she could respond, nearing footsteps drew her attention. She and Owen exchanged a worried glance, and she raised her finger to her lips. _Hopefully Enoch, but get something sharp just in case. _They both grabbed their weapons, preparing themselves for anything.

"Guys?" Enoch's whisper drifted down the hall, and they both relaxed. He edged into view, and though he'd pulled his hood up, his eyes and nose were visible through the ring of faux fur. Definitely their ally. "I checked the rest of the cellblock, at least on this floor. No one else has come this deep into the prison. We're safe for now."

Brand raised an eyebrow. Since when had they decided it was a prison?

Actually, now that she thought about it, a prison was one of the few things that made any sense. Jail cells, cellblocks, barred windows. It could have been a dungeon or a high-security boarding school, but neither of those really fit, although she'd often thought of school as a prison.

"What now?" Owen asked, blue eyes trained on the patch of dismal sky visible through the hole in the concrete. "If either of you are tired, we can start taking shifts."

Brand almost said that she wasn't the least bit tired, but now that Owen mentioned it, she noticed the heaviness in her limbs, the haze in her mind. The day was only half-over, and it had already been the longest of her entire life. Nine people had died, and she'd narrowly escaped the same fate. In fact, it was a minor miracle that their entire alliance had made it through. No telling how long their luck would last, but for now, Brand was grateful.

She stifled a yawn. "I think I might take you up on that offer."

"I'm still a little hyped," Enoch said. To Owen, he added, "We can discuss strategy or something in the meantime. That'll probably put me to sleep."

Brand climbed up on the top cot and rolled over to face the wall. After a few minutes, her allies' low murmurs blurred into white noise, and she closed her eyes. Nine down, eighteen to go, but that was a concern for later. Right now, she just needed some sleep.

* * *

**Hello, ladies and gents. First and foremost, sorry this took so long to publish. I had no writing time last quarter, and as per usual, school comes first. I figured that I wouldn't have done the chapter any justice when I was ready to pull my hair out over 8-hour lab reports, anyways. **

**I apologize if your tribute died this chapter. Either I had difficulty writing them as characters, couldn't give them a halfway-decent plot, couldn't figure out how to develop them over the course of the game, or some combination thereof. Thank you for submitting, thank you for reading, and if you leave, I totally understand. If your tribute wasn't mentioned, they're still alive. **

**The next chapter won't take as long to publish, I promise, and I hope that by now, you all know that I don't quit my SYOTs. I might take an unreasonably long time to update (see: Sand Castles), but I made a promise to you, the submitters, and I won't renege. **

**Anyways, thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think! In fact, I have a few questions that I would love for you to answer:**

_Did any of the survivors or deaths surprise you?_

_Did any of the survivors or deaths completely fail to surprise you?_

_Which tribute(s) do you think will die next?_

_Thoughts on the arena?_


	12. Breather

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Arena - Night One**

* * *

**Emery Sobel, District Three**

* * *

Emery removed the metal panel and frowned at the tangle of wires. It wasn't anything impossible, à la the endless knot, but it came dishearteningly close. Red, blue, green, yellow, silver, and especially black, all connected every which-way, and not a label to be found. Whoever built this had deplorable wire hygiene.

He picked at a few of the connections, tracing the individual paths until they disappeared into the tightly-bound mess. Not a single one ran freely from beginning to end. Figuring out how the hardware system worked, let alone how to reprogram it, would probably take the better part of the evening. Sighing, he pulled a wrench from the old technician kit he'd found next to the panel. Better get a move on.

"How long is it gonna be?" Darian asked, arms crossed as he cast another glance down the hallway. The other tributes, and whatever else patrolled the frozen halls, hadn't caught up with them. Yet.

Emery unscrewed a connecting bolt and set the end aside. "I honestly have no idea. I'll probably at least have the door open within an hour."

"Have it done in thirty."

Emery pressed his lips into a line. _Or what?_ But, as annoyed as he was, he didn't dare voice his opinion, especially with Darian acting so skittish and aggressive, so he kept his discontent to himself.

Adara rapped her knuckles on the steel-framed, bulletproof glass, eyeing the brightly lit, sealed-off corridor beyond. "We don't even know what's on the other side. I don't see why you're in such a hurry."

Darian scowled. "We're just sitting ducks out here. I'm not too crazy about getting gored by a muttation, unlike you, apparently."

"There could be mutts on the other side."

Releasing an exasperated sigh, Darian pressed his tongue against his teeth and lowered his head. "Just get the fucking door open."

"I'm working on it," said Emery. "It's just a little com-"

A cannon shot rumbled through the building, shaking loose a few flakes of snow. Another shot followed, then another and another, until nine had sounded in total. Emery hadn't paid much mind to the temperature, but he suddenly felt cold. Almost a third of the tributes were dead, and the day wasn't even out.

The anthem played, overlapping dozens of times as it echoed off the cold stone walls, and Emery bit his lip. He hadn't stayed around the Cornucopia too long after the initial violence. Adara had been the last to escape the bloodshed, and even then, she had no idea who had been killed. Emery hoped that Polly and Ace and their alliance made it out okay, along with Margery, even if Darian had never seemed too close to her.

The first face appeared on the walls, projected by some unseen contraption in the ceiling. Nynette Saghas, District Nine. Emery didn't remember much about her, although she'd seemed nice enough in training. Like the rest of the tributes, he doubted that she deserved to die. Maelyn LeBreton from District Five followed. Sadly, no surprise there.

Then came Florian Casimir of District One, whereupon Darian let out a low whistle and rubbed his hands together. "Well, there's one high score down."

Emery frowned. They were more than scores. They were more than the gamemakers' evaluations. But they were enemies, obstacles standing in the way of victory. If they lived, Emery didn't. But he couldn't bring himself to be happy over their deaths. Not like Darian, at least. Death wasn't his most favorite topic.

Twenty-fifth place belonged to Samson Galloway. Emery had seen that one, unfortunately, where Benjamin had all but smashed the guy's head in. Next was Denim from District Eight, then Aviana from District Ten. Emery averted his eyes from her picture and picked at the hem of his jacket. He'd liked Aviana. She was nice. Armand Castillo of District Eleven had died, too, and Emery hoped that Polly's alliance hadn't taken it too hard. Twenty-first place went to Benjamin Stavros, and twentieth place went to Damian Ridge.

Nine deaths in total. Districts Five, Nine, and Ten had all lost their chances at victory.

"Not bad," Adara said. "We still have Zero, Two, Four, Tristan, and Brand. And everyone else, of course, but those eight concern me the most."

"Same," Darian said, spinning a knife on the floor. "Which is why we need to get that door open and rigged as soon as possible."

Emery bit back a few choice words. "Yeah, I know. I'm getting there."

* * *

**Niko Sundita, District Thirteen**

* * *

Niko was half-convinced that, if he squinted hard enough, he could see the waves of seething hatred rolling off of Tullus, contaminating the run-down cell where they'd temporarily set up camp. Like Niko, Tullus had seen Armand die. Unlike Niko, Tullus didn't accept the fact that Armand wasn't the sort of kid who survived long in the arena. He'd taken Armand's death as a personal failure, and it seemed to have knocked something loose in the big guy's brain.

"Tullus?"

His head swiveled to Polly, eyes colder than frozen stone. "What?"

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. She looked away, drew a deep breath, and tried again. "What happened to Armand wasn't right, but you can't... you can't pin that on yourself."

His response was low and controlled, rage straining at the reins. "I'm not pinning it on myself, _Polly._"

Niko flinched. Tullus spat her name, as if it were some sort of curse. As if tasted bad.

Recoiling from her ally's words, Polly drew her eyebrows together, biting her lip to suppress a quiver. "You just seem really down on yourself. That's all."

"I didn't kill Armand," Tullus said, pointing at his chest. "And I'm also not the one who picked a fight with Tristan. I'm just the guy who couldn't save my idiot ally!"

Polly shrunk away. "All I'm saying is that no one blames you."

He smacked his hand against his face and pulled down, stretching his mouth down in a sick grimace. He forced a slow breath through his nose, and let his hand fall. "Thanks, Polly." His voice was calm, and it seemed he actually meant it. "I'm going to go take a walk. Maybe I'll find something useful."

Before anyone could argue, he left the cell and closed the door behind him. Niko tried to conceal his sigh of relief. Tullus had seemed normal enough before launch, but now that they were in the Game? Now that they'd been locked in a cage together? The guy had no chill. Anxiety, grief, guilt... all of the bad stuff only made him mad.

Back in Thirteen, Niko had dealt with a lot of people who used anger as a defense mechanism. In fact, most of the people he fought hand-to-hand used their negative emotions as some sort of crutch, trying to take the thing that made them weak and turn it into a strength. Sometimes it worked. Usually, though, they let the bad thing consume them. Become them.

Tullus was still a stranger. Niko didn't know how his ally would sort through all of his hatred and resentment, but for the time being, he would give the guy from Two a wide berth.

"We should to do something," Ace said after a short silence.

Niko's eyebrows drew together. "About Tullus?"

Ace gave him a strange look. "What? No. We just need to do something interesting, like explore or fight or get some stuff from the Cornucopia. The gamemakers might start messing with us if we sit still for too long."

"But we've only been here for a few hours," Polly said, jokingly incredulous. "I'm sure that the other tributes are interesting enough to distract them for a little while." Her smile faded. "I'm sure Tullus is off doing something interesting, anyways."

Ace groaned. "But I'm boooored."

"Go to sleep, maybe?" Niko said, regretting the note of whiny irritation in his own voice. More coolly, he added, "We can explore tomorrow."

Polly nodded, even as Ace rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "It's getting late, anyways," she said. "We can do more when all of the lights are on. When Tullus gets back, I'm sure he'll give us an idea of what the layout is like."

"Yeah." Ace slumped down on one of the creaky cots. "Okay."

Niko looked down at his hands. He wasn't looking forward to exploring nearly as much as Ace was. He just had a bad feeling about it.

Then again, he was in the Hunger Games. The whole deal was a bad feeling.

* * *

**Tristan Vorassi, District Six**

* * *

He lay on the stiff cot, peering into the solid wall of black above him and willing himself to fall asleep, though his efforts were largely in vain. The prison's advanced darkness only served to frighten rather than soothe. Things were lurking just beyond the cell, sharp-toothed nightmares pacing silently back and forth, waiting for their opportunity to strike. He could feel them watching.

Or maybe he was going insane. At this point, both scenarios seemed equally likely.

Ryder had volunteered to take first shift, but considering how much adrenaline still coursed through his veins, he probably should have volunteered instead. That would have been the right thing to do. He wasn't going to sleep any time soon.

Then again, he apparently didn't know how to do the right thing.

He'd killed someone. He'd watched the light leave their eyes. Yeah, Armand had tried to knife him first, but for fuck's sake, the kid had been twelve. _Twelve_. What a big man Tristan was, killing little boys who threatened him with bread knives. Murdering the youngest kid in the Game had probably even gained him a few sponsors! That kind of depravity excited them, didn't it? Watching kids die at the hands of other desperate kids.

Not to mention the fact that Tristan had almost been skewered by Armand's much bigger, much more dangerous accomplice, and that one of his allies had actually been skewered by Dabria. Worse yet, the gamemakers didn't seem to care about the bodies this time around. He and Margery had moved Benjamin's body to an adjacent cell, since letting a dead ally decompose in their shared breathing space didn't seem like the wisest or most sanitary decision. None of them needed the constant reminder of their own mortality. Their morale was low enough already.

Tristan had failed to keep his ally alive. He wanted to care, and he did. But death was the new normal, and he understood that as well as he could, if not accept it outright.

The only thing he didn't understand was why Dabria hadn't shot him when she'd had the chance. Sure, he probably could have dodged from that distance, but she hadn't even tried.

Maybe she'd had enough killing for one day?

_And maybe the gamemakers will let us all live._

Tristan rolled over and squeezed his eyes shut, imploring the dreams to come and give him some peace. He'd probably never know Dabria's motives, and at this point, it didn't matter. The moment had passed. It was over. What mattered was right now, what could happen, what would happen. He couldn't waste what precious little energy he had left obsessing over things he couldn't change.

Armand was dead. Tristan had killed him.

Benjamin was dead. Dabria had killed him.

And for some reason, she hadn't killed Tristan when given the chance. Lucky for him, not so lucky for her.

"Tristan?"

The whisper drifted over from the other side of the room. Tristan propped himself up on his elbows, and in the dim shaft of clouded moonlight, he made out Ryder's silhouette, staring at him as she leaned against the bars.

"Yeah?"

She didn't respond at first, and in the interim silence, something groaned deep in the depths of the prison. "What are we going to do?"

He furrowed his eyebrows. Her voice carried none of its usual lightheartedness, and it wasn't even day two. "We're going to fight," he said. "As long and as hard as we can."

"Oh."

She spoke heavily, as if she'd expected him to impart some groundbreaking nugget of enlightenment. But he had none. He was just Tristan, as confused and scared as she was.

The only difference was that knew how to hide it better.

* * *

**Sinora Midori, District Eleven**

* * *

Sinora ran her gloved hands up and down her arms. It didn't help much in the way of heat, and the jacket hardly did anything.

During the bloodbath, she'd managed to grab a backpack and a knife from the Cornucopia, but the backpack had only contained a day's worth of food and water, as well as a thin scarf that she'd promptly wrapped around her neck, even though it was more useless than the jacket.

She wished at least one of her allies had survived. Their deaths had been cruel and unnecessary, but almost every tribute in this stupid arena would be dead within the next week or two, anyways, probably including Sinora if she was honest with herself, so the injustice wasn't specific to Nynette and Maelyn. They'd earned their deaths just as much as the surviving tributes had earned their lives.

But for the first time in many years, Sinora just wanted to be with someone. She didn't want to be alone in a place like this.

In the distance, a door buzzed, opened, and slid into place with a metallic clang. Footsteps echoed down the corridor, crisp and even as a metronome. Something clattered against the bars as the footsteps grew closer, and Sinora retreated into the darkest corner of her cell, hoping that whatever it was would pass her without notice. She tried to swallow, but her throat wouldn't cooperate.

A uniformed figure strolled into view, pace measured, hand held out to touch the bars. The clattering came from the thing's claws as they slipped along the corroded metal. Moonlight from the cell across the hall backlit the creature, throwing it into stark relief and revealing the shape of a man with talons for hands. Something was off about its face and neck, too. Sinora blinked a few times, trying to focus in the low light, and the thing stopped mid-stride. It spun on its heels to face her, shoulders squared and black eyes glimmering.

Sinora flinched at the wet sound of lips peeling back from teeth. A silver grin, shockingly bright in the low light, split the creature's face from ear to ear. Its fingers played along the bars, tapping out more of a taunt than any recognizable tune.

A few agonizing seconds passed before the creature either decided she wasn't entertaining enough or wasn't worth the effort. It pulled away, completely nonchalant, and continued on its way, still running its nails along the bars.

As soon as the creature's footsteps began to fade, Sinora allowed herself a shallow, silent breath. The mutt could probably still hear her, but if it really wanted to hurt her, it could have unlocked the cell door. It had a uniform, which meant it had some semblance of authority in the prison, right? Probably had the keys to the cell locks. It was an important player in the Game, that much she knew. Something to be avoided.

How would the encounter have played out if the mutt had met her in the hall? If there wasn't a wall of steel bars between them? Maybe it was just supposed to scare them, or keep them in one place at night, or even kill the tributes who were dumb enough to creep around after dark. If so, that wouldn't be a problem. For her, at least.

Sinora pulled her knees closer to her chest. For now, she wasn't going anywhere.

* * *

**Medea Torrell, District Two**

* * *

Despite the myriad supplies that still remained, the Cornucopia was completely deserted. Unlike most of the arena, the gamemakers left the lights here on overnight, which made the room seem even more abandoned than the rest of the prison, as if the overseers had up and left halfway through their shift. Save for the electric hum of the florescent lamps, the main hall was silent.

Seven bodies lay where they had fallen, some half-hidden by boxes and others in full view, surrounded by sheets of frozen blood. The subfreezing temperatures would prevent decay, at least for a while, but that didn't change the fact they were surrounded by dead kids. A shiver ran up Medea's spine and she cast her eyes upon the ground, questioning why she and Evelyn had chosen to come back to this awful place. Didn't they already have enough supplies? They could have lasted a few more days, surely. But she knew it was necessary. Sooner or later, they'd run out of food and water, and with the Cornucopia deserted, it would have been imprudent to waste the opportunity.

Medea picked through the setup, trying and failing to avoid the dead tributes. She spotted Florian, who lay slumped against a bench and table, clouded eyes upturned, unseeing. Dabria had split him open from shoulder to navel, spilling blood and gore down his front and across the floor, splattering the nearby boxes and backpacks. Medea swallowed hard and something in her throat clicked. Was she getting a glimpse of her not-so-distant future?

They probably didn't need those supplies, anyways.

From another table, she grabbed an empty backpack and started cramming in all of the useful things she could find. She rifled through a few other nearby crates and picked out three bottles of water and a can of iodine tablets, as well as a nifty little pocketknife with about fifteen different settings. She found a few packets of dried beef and fruit, along with a bag of beans and a vial of cooking oil. Probably two day's worth of food when split between them.

She gathered her newfound supplies and set her sights on finding Evelyn. This place was giving her the creeps.

Her ally had paused in front of one body in particular. Of course, Medea had no trouble recognizing the crumpled form. She'd left him there, after all.

"You killed him," Evelyn said, as if she'd only just remembered. She knelt down and brushed the hair out of his eyes. "You killed Denim."

Medea's blood ran cold. Evelyn had never seemed concerned with the well-being of her district partner. It's not like Denim had given her much of a choice, either. Self-defense was a good reason, right?

"He attacked me."

"He hit you, and you killed him."

"And _you_ killed Aviana." Medea drew a sharp breath, trying to collect her swarming thoughts. Maybe that hadn't been the best thing to say, but Evelyn was being rather quick to judge. "We both did what we had to do."

Tracing her fingers along the concrete floor, Evelyn looked up and gave Medea a heavy-lidded stare. "I suppose so." Rising to her full height, knees cracking as she dragged another full backpack up from the ground, she ran a hand through her hair and pressed her lips together. "Let's go."

Medea nodded, more eager than she'd like to admit. She just wanted to get away from the killing field.

* * *

**Enoch Emeris, District Zero**

* * *

A frigid breeze pushed its claws through the barred windows, carrying a few stray flakes from the weak snowfall outside.

Enoch rolled over onto his side and exhaled, watching his breath billow in the muted pre-dawn light. He cracked his eyes open and ran his tongue across frozen lips. Even his teeth were cold. Prying his hands from under his armpits, he rose to a sitting position and attempted to yawn, but his lungs couldn't take a full breath without catching on the ice in the air.

"And so he awakens," Owen droned from the corner, not bothering to cast him a glance. "Enjoy your beauty sleep?"

"If you can call it that," Enoch said, rubbing his eyes. He blinked a few times, and set his gaze on Owen.

The night hadn't been kind to the boy from Four. He sat in the same position as when Enoch had fallen asleep, but now, snowflakes clung to his jacket, purple clung to his lips, and dark circles clung to the underside of his eyes. His gaze carried no warmth, no interest. Perhaps it was simply the lighting, but he seemed paler, too. Almost pallid.

"Hey, Owen... you alright?"

His eyes remained fixed on the wall outside the cell. "I'm fine."

"Don't you want some sleep? I can take watch."

"No."

On the other cot, Brand rolled over and sucked in a deep breath. Enoch jumped with surprise, but Owen made no indication that he'd even noticed. He just kept staring at the wall.

Pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes, Brand said, "I think my eyeballs are frozen."

Owen gave her a dead-eyed stare. "You would be blind."

Enoch cupped his hands and tried to breathe a little life into his fingers, but didn't enjoy much success. "There's this little thing called _hyperbole_."

Mouth turning down in a scowl, Owen's expression clouded over, and it almost seemed he would retaliate, but he just slumped his shoulders and let out a bitter sigh. "Yeah, okay. I'm just tired."

With a nod, Enoch said, "That's why you should get some sleep."

"I'll sleep when I'm dead."

Brand pulled her knees closer to her chest. "Don't even joke about that. It's not funny."

Owen turned to her, the corners of his mouth trembling with a fragile almost-smile. "I'm not joking."

"You said you were alright," Enoch said, "but I get the feeling that you were lying."

"Lying or not," Owen said, shaking his head, "at this point, it's moot. 'Alright' is the kind of thing we aren't allowed to be anymore."

"Okay," Enoch clapped his hands together and stood. He didn't know if Owen's weird behavior had anything to do with staying up all night, but it was starting to unsettle him. "I would tell you to chill out, but considering the circumstances, I think 'lighten up' is a more appropriate request. Either way, you need to quit it with the melodrama. We've got enough to worry about, and I don't want you to go crazy or die of sleep loss halfway through the Game. Pick a better mountain to die on."

Glaring at his intertwined fingers, Owen's shoulders rose and fell with an exasperated sigh. "Look, Enoch. I hear what you're saying, but I'm not going to sleep. Not right now, at least."

Enoch gave a tentative nod. His ally's behavior made a strange sort of sense, even if it was irritating and more than a little off-putting. Owen was stressed out, had his life on the line, and didn't trust Enoch or Brand as far as he could throw them. And rightfully so. They were all untested strangers, just as likely to help him as they were to stab him in the back, and a sleeping tribute was a vulnerable tribute. Still, Enoch didn't want to deal with a paranoid, sleep-deprived giant. For now, though, he had to be diplomatic, at least until Owen settled down.

He'd probably have to wait a while.

* * *

**Hey, look. No deaths! I generally dislike having no-death chapters after the bloodbath, but considering all the people who've already died and all of the stuff I needed to set up, the tributes got an unexpected breather. Not too sure how I feel about this chapter, but I suppose it was more for putting things in motion and revealing character than advancing the plot or showcasing action.  
**

**The blog had been updated with the deaths from the bloodbath. After each new chapter I'll update the blog with the deaths from the previous one, to keep spoilers to a minimum whilst giving everyone a for-sure death order. **

**Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think!**


	13. Work It Out

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Brand**

* * *

Despite Owen's grand show of paranoia earlier that morning, he'd nodded off sometime around noon. Brand wasn't complaining, though. Her ally from Four had stood watch throughout the night, and had been grumpy, argumentative, and cryptically forlorn ever since she and Enoch had woken up. It had started to scare her - if the strongest member of their alliance was starting to crack this early on, what chance did the rest of them stand?

Then again, physical strength didn't necessarily equate to mental strength. It was the kind of thing that couldn't be determined during training, and she'd simply have to hope that she'd selected the right allies.

And what if she'd picked differently? Entrusted her chances of survival to other strangers? If she'd changed this, tweaked that, replaced this little bit here with something better?

But the past wasn't a machine that she could tinker with. It was set in stone, and she couldn't waste her thoughts and energy on what-ifs and what-could-have-beens. Not if she wanted to win.

"Think he'll be pissed off that we let him fall asleep?" she asked, twirling a bit of hair around her finger as she stared passed the barred windows to the gray sky above.

Enoch shrugged. "Maybe. He'll just have to deal with it. Sleep depravation doesn't suit him. And maybe," he said, pulling one of the energy bars out of their communal food pack, "when he sees that we didn't stab him in his sleep, he'll realize that we aren't out to kill him."

Brand nodded. They could tolerate each other well enough, but until they built up some trust, their alliance would continue to sputter.

* * *

**Medea**

* * *

Evelyn hadn't spoken much since they'd returned from the Cornucopia. A few necessary utilitarian questions and responses, but nothing more.

Medea knew that Evelyn was still upset about Denim's death, but there was nothing she could do about it. It wasn't like she could take back the killing blow.

From her pack, she withdrew a small box of cookies. It had been a lucky find, something sweet in all of this bitterness, and she had wanted to keep it to herself. But a sacrifice was required. Medea pushed one of the plastic-wrapped stacks across the table, desperately hoping that Evelyn would accept it, because acceptance meant toleration. Maybe even forgiveness.

Evelyn glanced up, first at Medea, then at the offering. Her eyes narrowed, and she shook her head. "I'll pass."

All of Medea's hopes withered, curling up and dying under Evelyn's frigid gaze. If they were supposed to be allies, that meant they had to work together, and people who hated each other didn't make for very good teammates. They had to communicate, they had to cooperate, and they had to care.

"I don't know what you want from me," Medea said, resting her elbows on her knees and working her fingers through her hair. "What happened, happened. I didn't want to do it, but that's how it worked out."

"I don't want anything from you," Evelyn said, cocking her head to the side with a mocking half-grin. "Not when it comes to Denim, anyways. After all, you're right. That's just how it worked out. It was you or him, and you won. Congratulations."

Medea hung her head. This wasn't going as she'd thought it would.

None of it was.

* * *

**Evelyn**

* * *

Medea had drawn her knees to her chest and set her eyes on the bag. Evelyn knew Medea felt bad about killing Denim, though she wasn't sure whether that was because he'd been Evelyn's district partner or simply because she'd killed someone.

She wasn't really mad at Medea for killing him. What Medea had done, she'd done to survive.

Actually no, that wasn't true. Evelyn still felt something cold toward her ally, though she didn't quite understand why. She hadn't even liked Denim. Rude, sullen, and a constant reminder of her least favorite place on the planet outside of District Zero. But for some reason, she hadn't thought Medea capable of murder, despite her formal training. Evelyn had hoped for a docile ally, someone who posed no threat, but that was her fault for not verifying Medea as such.

In any case, her ally didn't deserve the quiet resentment Evelyn had shown since the bloodbath. Could Evelyn get over it, though? Was she capable of just letting go? For the time being, and for the sake of their alliance, she had to try.

Evelyn reached across the table, picked up the sleeve of cookies, and took two for herself, nodding to Medea as she did so. Accepting kind gestures provided a good foundation for friendship, right?

Medea smiled in turn. A good sign.

This alliance could work out. Evelyn had to believe that.

* * *

**Niko**

* * *

"I'm bored."

Niko dragged his hand down his face, glaring at his ally. "I know. You've only said it eight times already."

Resting his hands on his knees, Ace squatted down next to Niko, rocking from side to side. "Yeah, but I really am. We should do something."

"Tullus and Polly think we should stay put until the other tributes make a move."

"Yeah, but that might take forever."

"Ace, please-"

"We should go exploring!" he said with an explosive jump. "We're almost out of food anyways, so why don't we go look for some?"

"Because we know there's food at the Cornucopia, and we'll get some when we need it."

"But we don't know what the other tributes are doing, or what the rest of the arena is like." His face fell when he saw Niko's disinterest. "Come on! Are you really just going to wait around for someone to come along and kill you?"

Ace's words struck a chord of anger in Niko, and as the fire rose in his chest, and he fought to suppress it before it could catch. Armand was dead because he had rushed into battle without thinking things through. Didn't Ace understand that? But perhaps it angered Niko because he knew that Ace was kinda right. If they weren't acting, they were reacting, and in a life-or-death situation, that could spell disaster.

"It's better to stay here," Niko said, though his words had no conviction.

Ace frowned, but it only lasted for a second before it morphed into a mischievous grin. "Well, if you're not coming with me, I guess I'll have to go by myself."

Before Niko could stop him, Ace crossed the room and headed out into the hall. He didn't even have a weapon. What did he expect to accomplish?

"Damn it."

Niko ran after his ally. If the kid's mind couldn't be changed, then Niko had to make sure he didn't get into too much trouble in the meantime.

* * *

**Darian**

* * *

Emery leaned against the wall, gnawing on his cuticles.

"Stop that," Adara said, slapping at his hand. "It's gross."

"Sorry." Emery stuffed his hands under his arms. "Just nervous."

Darian gave his ally a smile that wasn't unkind, but carried no warmth. "After what you did to the door, I don't think anyone's going to be bothering us. Not for long, anyways."

Emery burrowed his face into his crossed arms with a sullen moan. "That's what I'm worried about."

"You're worried that the weapon you made will work properly? Come on, Emery. We needed something to protect ourselves, and so you rigged the door. You should be proud of your work."

"I am, but…" Emery lifted his gaze to Darian. "You just seem like you're looking forward to using it. That's what worries me."

Darian waved him off. "You worry too much."

Emery had built it as a safety precaution, and that's how they were going to use it. But if his allies didn't have the courage or the wits to use all of the tools at their disposal, that was their problem. He'd use it if he saw fit, because in this game, it was kill or be killed. There was no time for moral debates. If they didn't strike while they had the upper hand, they would lose.

* * *

**Ace**

* * *

He hurried ahead, exhilarated by the arena's sheer size. Niko had decided to follow him, and Tullus and Polly had decided to follow Niko, which made Ace happy. Everyone was exploring together, and everything was going just fine until Ace happened across another alliance.

The three tributes stood past a doorway near the middle of the hall. None of them noticed him, too focused were they on something in the room beside them, and Ace knew that this was his chance. He had to rush them, while he still had the element of surprise.

It's what Armand would have done.

"Ace!"

Niko's pleading voice held him back, but only for a moment. Ace had already killed before, and it hadn't been so bad. Or so he told himself. He wouldn't kill his district partner, of course, but he could probably take Darian one-on-one, and Emery would definitely be an easy takedown. Niko could take Adara, and Polly or Tullus could take Darian while Ace took on Emery. They'd emerge victorious, and then the sponsors would see that they were all a force to be reckoned with, not just Tullus.

Emery saw him first. Rising to his feet, he held out his hands, eyes so wide they almost seemed like they would pop out. "Stop!"

At the sound of terror in her ally's voice, Adara looked up, too, and adopted a similar expression. "Ace, don't!"

Off to the side, Darian stood at the wall, hand poised over a switch. Ace thought nothing of it. They were just afraid, because Ace and Niko and Polly and Tullus were going to win.

* * *

**Emery**

* * *

The boy from Twelve didn't stop running toward them.

Out of the corner of his eye, Emery watched Darian's hand tense, and he almost screamed for his ally to stop. But something cold and cruel surfaced in his mind, holding him back for a vital second. The boy from Twelve was competition. Ace had to die, right? Why not now?

_ Not like this._

Emery reached for Darian's arm, words of protest already on his lips, but a metallic screech cut him off, followed by the sound of wet meat and the snapping of bones. Emery's hand dropped.

The door had caught the kid diagonally from his left hip to his right shoulder, and had crushed everything in-between. Ace's bulging eyes rolled up to the ceiling and he sunk to the floor in halting increments as the door lost its artificially high hydraulic pressure. A cannon shot, deafeningly loud, echoed throughout the stone halls.

On the other side of the door's window, Polly and her allies rounded the corner just in time to watch Ace take his last choking breath, blood pouring from his mouth. She screamed, and Emery instinctively clamped his hands over his ears. He killed his district partner's ally. This was his fault. He shouldn't have hesitated to stop Darian. He shouldn't have built something so evil.

"Come on," Adara said, slinging her pack over her shoulder. "We don't want to be here when they manage to get through the door."

As she spoke, the guy from Two let out an animalistic, baritone roar that set Emery's basest instincts on edge. Adara was right: to get within arm's reach of that man would spell death.

They had to leave.

* * *

**Tullus**

* * *

The cowards were gone before Tullus could pry the door open. As he forced it apart, centimeter by centimeter, Ace's bloody, pulverized form slapped to the floor. It was a wonder that the door hadn't cut him in half.

"It was his fault," Niko said, his eyes fixed on the ground, away from Ace. "He's the one who wanted to go exploring. He didn't stop when they told him to."

Tullus's entire world ran red. He wanted to kill something. Rip off its flesh and tear it limb from limb. All of the thoughts and urges he'd suppressed for years, everything he'd thrown to the back of his mind and tried to forget. The dam was breaking and all of the dark water would flood his mind, drowning out the light. But Tullus didn't care. In fact, he welcomed it. Two of his allies were dead, right before his eyes, and he'd killed someone, too. He didn't want to feel anything.

Ace's death may have been the kid's own fault. Tullus accepted that. But Darian and Adara and Emery had killed him. They had taken the youngest, most naïve member of his team. Tullus had no choice but to return the favor.

"I'm going to find them," he said, redoubling his effort to force the door. "and I'm going to kill Emery."

Polly gave him a frightened stare, pressing her fists against her chest. "Tullus…"

Something cracked, and the sliding door lost all resistance and slammed back into the wall. Tullus stepped over onto the other side, wringing out his hands, and stared down the corridor. "Come with me or don't. I'm going either way."

* * *

**Adara**

* * *

She glared at the back of Darian's head. They'd had a good thing going. A safe spot to return to. But her idiot ally had gone and messed all of it up, and killed her idiot district partner in the process. Tullus, Polly, and Niko hadn't had any reason to hate them before, but now? She'd seen Tullus's eyes. He was out for blood.

"We need to find a place to hide," she said, keeping her voice low. "We're exposed out in the open like this."

"We're exposed no matter where we are," Darian said, not bothering to turn around. She was surprised to hear an element of fear and guilt in his voice, though it was buried under a layer of irritated animosity. "And it's not like-"

Shoes slapping against the floor in a frantic rhythm. Someone was running toward them.

Adara spun around, but she saw only Emery twenty or so feet behind, staring back at her with wide eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but he snapped his head to the side, and his hands instinctively shot up to protect his face. A figure rocketed out of the side hallway, barreling into Emery and slamming him into the wall. Emery's head cracked against the stone and he went limp.

"Shit." Adara pulled a knife from her belt, ready to fight the monster that had emerged from the darkness, but Tullus made no move toward her. He simply glared at her as an acid smile burned up the sides of his mouth, and he slung Emery over his shoulder with seemingly no effort at all. How had he found them so quickly?

She didn't have time to attack before Tullus disappeared into the same hallway from which he'd emerged. Despite Emery's added weight, Tullus moved too fast for either Adara or Darian to catch up. And even if they could, what would they do? He could easily overpower either of them, and would still put up a potentially lethal fight against the two of them together.

Emery was as good as gone.

* * *

**Polly**

* * *

Her cuticles were bleeding. She'd bitted them raw waiting for Tullus to return, hoping he'd arrive empty-handed. Ace hadn't deserved that sort of death, but neither did Emery. She liked her district partner, and the darkness she'd seen in Tullus's face gave her a sick feeling, because she knew that if Tullus got ahold of him, the next few hours would be the end for the boy from Three.

But of course, Tullus had come back with his prize in tow. Polly didn't know what he had planned, but it wasn't good, whatever it was.

Emery lay unconscious on a gurney, wrists and ankles strapped to the metal bars. Blood trickled from a bruised cut on his forehead, and though Polly had offered to treat it with any number of the supplies scattered about the hospital wing, Tullus had forbidden her from doing so. She hated him for that. But she feared him more.

Niko didn't look up from his corner. He rested his face in his hands, as if he could block out the whole world with a few millimeters of flesh.

"What are you going to do to him?"

Metal instruments clattered on a gleaming plate as Tullus rummaged around for something specific. "Do you want the real answer, or the one that you want to hear?"

Polly bit her lip. Phrased like that, she didn't want an answer at all. She didn't want any of this.

* * *

**Enoch**

* * *

Owen twitched awake with a sharp intake of breath. He sat up quickly, glancing at the window, before casting his gaze upon his allies.

"Good afternoon, Sleeping Beauty," Enoch said. "I trust the nap went well?"

"What time is it?" Owen asked, not bothering to answer the question.

"Ooooh, probably around four." Enoch eyed his ally, waiting for the familiar quarrelsome spark to resurface, but it never did. Gently, he asked, "Are you good?"

Owen gave him a quick, sharp stare, then nodded. "Yeah."

"Amazing what some sleep can do," Brand said, resting her chin on her fist.

For a moment, Enoch feared that Owen would say something, but to his immense relief, Owen chose to let it slide. Perhaps sleep really was all he'd needed.

"Did anything else happen while I was out?"

Someone died while you were asleep, but we don't know who."

Nodding slowly, Owen rubbed his eyes. "Doesn't matter. It wasn't any of us."

"I suppose." A length of silence stretched between them, and Enoch shared a nervous glance with Brand. They'd come to a consensus on their plan of action while Owen was asleep, but they had no idea how he would respond to the idea, or even if he'd think they were ganging up on him by making a decision without his input.

They wouldn't know until they asked.

* * *

**Dabria**

* * *

Dabria didn't like the silence. It amplified all of the smaller sounds, making the already vast cornucopia room seem much larger than it actually was. She could almost hear the echoes of her own thoughts.

Beside her, Charne had laid out the contents of their supply bag, sorting the food and polishing the weapons for the seventh time in a fruitless attempt to escape the crushing boredom. They hadn't seen any other tributes since the night before - when she'd killed Benjamin - and only one cannon shot had sounded since the bloodbath. Everything was going so slow.

"I kinda wish someone would show up," Dabria said. "It's too quiet around here."

Charne shrugged. "Something will happen eventually. Enjoy the peace while it lasts."

They'd had three days of peace before this Game started. Dabria was tired of peace. The faster everyone else died, the faster she could go home. "Peace" just prolonged her stay in this frozen hellhole.

"I doubt that any of your knives ran away since you last checked ten minutes ago," Dabria said, eyeing the assortment spread across the table.

"I know that, but let me have my ritual. Unless, of course, you want me to strike up a conversation about District Zero fashion and haute couture." She smirked at Dabria's considering frown. "I just need something to distract myself."

With a nod, Dabria turned her attention back to the room at large. If it helped Charne feel better and keep her cool, then it wasn't really a waste of time.

* * *

**Danique**

* * *

Hunger weighed in her gut like a sharpened stone, cutting deeper with each passing hour.

The memories of Florian's mortal wound and Damian's quiet death kept the worst of the hunger at bay, dulling her bodily needs with a welcome veil of shock and lingering nausea. But her body could only go for so long without sustenance, whereupon she would become utterly useless. More so than normal, at least. She had to keep her strength up, because she couldn't afford the alternative.

Two girls had settled in the Cornucopia room, laying claim to numerous supplies that the other tributes overlooked during the bloodbath. Charne sat atop a metal table, sorting through her bag while Dabria inspected her crossbow, though neither seemed very invested in their tasks. Either that meant they were zoning out, or ready to pounce at a moment's notice, and it was impossible to tell which. Hardly wanting to face either of them in battle, Danique slipped off her shoes and set them alongside the wall. Socks were quieter, better for stealth, but the cold seeped through the thin layer of cloth, chilling the soles of her feet.

She had to make it quick and precise, or the others would notice her. Dabria was a pretty good shot, so it would be best to keep out of her range of fire and keep hidden behind the maze of boxes and crates. There had to be a few stores of food on the cornucopia's periphery. And if there weren't… then Danique was in trouble.

* * *

**Charne**

* * *

Rearranging the pack made Charne feel better. Counting and re-counting, sorting and re-sorting. It was entirely pointless, but the menial work distracted her from reality, temporarily replacing her massive, potentially life-ending problem with a tiny, completely manageable one. Food, water, medicine, throwing knives, iodine, repeat.

Something shuffled nearby.

Charne's head snapped up, but Dabira hadn't noticed. Without thinking, Charne took a few throwing knives, hopped off of the table, and headed for the sound, taking special care to avoid Aviana's body, still crumpled where she'd died.

Stopping in front of an alcove of crates, Charne heard someone scuttling off to the side and caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye. She leaned into the alcove, and found a girl with socks and no shoes looking up at her, clutching a bag to her chest as her face drained of color, turning a splotchy gray under the harsh overhead lights.

"What's up?" Dabria called, probably delighted at the prospect of violence.

Maybe it was Aviana's body lying just a few feet away, a perfect example of the waste this stupid Game propagated, but Charne didn't feel like killing this girl. There had been enough death for the time being, and Charne wasn't about to stain her hands with someone else's blood. Not yet.

"Nothing, I guess," Charne said, taking a step back as she tore her gaze from Danique. "Thought I heard something."

Dabria relaxed, and Charne heard Danique disappear into the forest of boxes, as quickly as she'd arrved. Maybe Charne had made the right choice, or maybe she'd simply prolonged the poor girl's struggle for a few more hours. Either way, Danique's death wouldn't be on her shoulders.

* * *

**Tristan**

* * *

"We need to go back to the Cornucopia."

Tristan felt Ryder and Margery's eyes on him. None of them wanted to leave the relative safety of their cell, but starvation and dehydration posed just as big of a danger as their competition did. The trainers had gone to great lengths to pound that into the tributes' skulls. On top of that, Benjamin's body, decomposing in the next room over, hardly put Tristan at ease.

He just needed to get out for a little while. Might as well make it a mission.

Of course, going back to the Cornucopia meant seeing Armand again, but Tristan had come to terms with it. Mostly. He'd forced it from his mind, and either he'd deal with it once he won, or he wouldn't deal with it at all, because right now he simply didn't have the bandwidth.

"I'll go," Ryder said, hopping to her feet with a smile that actually seemed genuine. "It's getting boring around here, anyways."

They both looked to Margery, but the girl from Seven held up her hands. "I'm fine staying here. I'll watch the homestead." A brief smile flickered across her face, but it quickly dissolved into an anxious grimace. "Just come back as soon as you can, okay?"

Tristan took his sword from its resting place against the wall, and left one of the machetes on the cot, handing the other to Ryder. "You'll be okay with us gone?"

A shadow passed behind Margery's eyes, but she nodded all the same.

Tristan slapped her shoulder as he walked out into the hallway, Ryder following him closely. "See you soon."

He didn't want her to stay behind all alone, but he didn't have the energy to argue. She could fend for herself.

* * *

**Sinora**

* * *

The twisting hallway seemed endless, the view blocked every thirty paces by sharp turns or curving walls, and Sinora found herself wondering why she'd left the safety of her cell at all. Thirst and hunger drove her, sure, but that was only a small part of it. Her encounter with the mutt had pierced her apathy, peeled back her armor of nothing, and had touched upon a live wire of fear. She felt more real, more anchored to the present, than she had in many years. Maybe ever.

Sinora hated it.

Shortly after the sun had risen, she'd set out to find another place to stay. A safer place.

The signs overhead claimed that they led to the main overwatch tower, whatever that was. She figured that if it needed a sign, it was important, and probably well-fortified. If she was lucky, it had some spare supplies, too.

Eventually, she came to a grungy door that had once been painted white, but had since been stained with all manner of dirt, grime, and what seemed to be an ancient splatter of blood. Above the door, a sign read "Overwatch Access". She edged it open, trying to keep the rusting hinges from screeching too loudly, then cast a final glance over her shoulder and edged inside. Gray light slipped through the high windows, casting the stairwell in a eerie monochrome. Four flights of stairs ran up from the basement all the way to the tower above, and a moment of hesitation gripped her, but she shook it off. If another tribute or mutt had beaten her to the tower, that was that.

She crept to the top, and found another door standing ajar, this one much heavier than the other, reinforced with steel plating and built with three deadbolts the size of Sinora's arm. The tower room possessed windows on nearly all sides, providing a wide view of the arena below. The prison itself was shaped like an I, with two long cellblocks connected at their midpoints by another cellblock. There were two prison yards, one on either side of the middle cellblock, likely for recreation and exercise. Another tower stood at the other end of the prison, and Sinora wondered if anyone else had found that one.

Underneath the windows ran a control panel, with many different buttons and screens, most of which she didn't understand. One, however, caught her attention right away. It was bright red, set on its own corner of the panel, and clearly labeled "Red Alert". That would be interesting.

Should she press it? It could kill her, maybe lead the other tributes to her location. Or maybe it wouldn't do anything. Since the button was located in the tower, probably nothing would happen to her. Hopefully. Only one way to find out for sure.

She pressed the button.

* * *

**Owen**

* * *

"It's a bad idea."

Enoch threw his arms up. "We'll have to leave sometime! Only one person has died all day, and you and I both know that the gamemakers will start stirring things up if we don't. And I'd rather be the one to make the move."

"There are still a lot of other tributes stronger than us, though. Tullus, Tristan, Adara." More quietly, he added, "Dabria." He didn't want to acknowledge it, but Owen knew that his district partner would probably kill him the first chance she got. So, he just had to make sure she didn't get that chance. "And it's only been a day and a half. I don't think they'll-"

An earsplitting tone cut him off, deep enough to resonate in his gut. Owen covered his ears, searching in vain for the invisible loudspeaker and wishing he could tear it out of the wall. A few second later, the tone was replaced by an automated voice, devoid of all emotion. "Red alert, red alert. We are now in lockdown. All inmates to their cells." The voice paused for a moment, then repeated the message, and on it went.

"Lockdown?" Brand asked, staring up at the ceiling as if the answer were written there.

"I guess we have to stay here," Owen said, raising his voice to be heard over the announcement. "Maybe it's only for our part of…"

He let his sentence fade into silence, and instead strained his ears. He'd heard something over the din - there it was again. Howling. Like wolves. And footsteps, but not the scuffling of the tributes' work shoes. This was the self-assured clack of steel-toed boots. On instinct, Owen grabbed the cell door and slammed it shut, cringing when he heard the bars lock into place. None of them had a key to open it again. Hopefully this was an arena-wide thing, or they were shit out of luck.

"What did you do that for?" Enoch asked, though it was more out of genuine curiosity than accusatory anger.

"Listen," Owen said, pointing down the hall. "Something's coming."

The announcement had told them that all inmates must be in their cells. The tributes were inmates. Lockdowns were only declared in the event of a riot or other dangerous situation, so if the tributes wanted to survive, they had to be in their cells, right? They wouldn't just kill the tributes off without any pomp and circumstance, right?

Right?

* * *

**Margery**

* * *

All throughout the prison, barred doors slammed shut in timed segments, sending a metallic metronome screaming through the empty spaces. The wave of closing doors was still a ways off, but Tristan and Ryder weren't back yet.

Why hadn't she gone with them? Sure, she'd stayed behind because she was tired and scared, and had figured that she could look after the supplies. In retrospect, though, she could have just carried everything like a pack-mule and followed them to the Cornucopia. At least that way, they would have stayed together. But she would have been a liability if they ran into any other tributes or muttations.

Shaking her head, she hopped off of the cot and paced the room, straining her ears to pick up the sounds of running footsteps or labored breathing, any sign of her returning allies. It didn't help. The repeating announcement was too loud. Either they weren't back yet, or they never would be.

She paused at the door, fingers wrapped tight around the bars, head rested against the concrete wall. If the other two didn't show up soon, she would have to close the cell without them. With every fiber of her being, she didn't want that to happen. Didn't want to be alone.

And so she waited, peering nervously at the end of the hall. Hoping. Fearing.

* * *

**Ryder**

* * *

Creatures screeched and cell doors clanged shut somewhere deep in the concrete labyrinth, drawing closer all the time. Whatever red alert meant, those howling muttations would eat them for lunch if they didn't haul ass, and the overburdened packs on their backs didn't make sprinting any easier. She and Tristan had managed to go unnoticed by Charne and Dabria back at the cornucopia, and they'd thought they were in the clear until the announcement came over the loudspeakers.

"If we don't get back to Margery in time," Tristan said through rough gasps, "we'll have to pick a cell, wait until it's over, and hope she figures it out on her own."

Ryder nodded, unable to speak with her searing, desperate lungs. She was running as fast as she could, but even then, Tristan was holding back to maintain the same pace. If the mutts caught up with them, Tristan could just sprint ahead, and Ryder would be the first to go. All the more reason to lock themselves in a jail cell as soon as possible.

"Only a little further," Tristan said, reading her expression. "Two more hallways, that's it." As he spoke, the doors behind them started to shut of their own accord.

They rounded the second-to-last corner, and the wave followed them, narrowing the gap with every exhausted step they took. It was going to catch up, lock them out, and then they'd be dead. Never going to make it, never going to make it, never going to-

Tristan shoved her to the side and she went tumbling into one of the cells, skinning her palms and knees on the concrete floor. Tristan landed beside her just as the bars slid shut behind them, locking them in for who knew how long.

With a groan, Ryder sat up, staring at the empty hall beyond the bars. Cold guilt curdled in her gut. "Margery is alone."

"She's a big girl," Tristan said. "She'll survive for a few hours on her own." After a long sigh, he reluctantly added, "She has to."

* * *

**Yeah, so. It's been quite awhile. I gave everyone a POV to bring everything up to speed and remind everyone where the tributes were before my unexpectedly long hiatus. **

**I am sorry that it took this long. I was unwell and had to sort out a few things (which seems to be a running theme with my summers anymore). If you are no longer reading the story, you won't see this anyways, but I totally understand. If you are still reading, I really appreciate it. **

**So, we're down to 18 tributes. Any predictions on who bites the dust next? **

**Thanks for reading!**


	14. Teeth and Scalpels

**I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.**

* * *

**Charne Valle, District Zero**

* * *

Charne leaned against the pile of furniture, despite knowing that her added weight would make no difference. The barricade would hold, hopefully, but she and Dabria were prepared to attack anything that came through the door. They'd found more than enough stuff in the cafeteria's kitchen to block the doorways, but if all of the other tributes had managed to lock themselves inside of the jail cells, she and Dabria were probably the easiest pickings. Hopefully someone else had worse luck than they did.

The barking was getting closer.

They'd been holed up in the kitchen for a little longer than Charne had wanted, but it had fresh water and enough canned food to last a few days. She'd been worried that other tributes would come looking for supplies, and maybe fight them for it, but no one had found them. For now, fear overruled hunger. But how much longer would that last?

Assuming they lived long enough to find out.

Something thumped against the other side of the door, and the barricade shifted slightly, all of the different pieces settling into place. Nothing teetered, nothing tipped. It would hold for now.

"Charne, get out of the way."

Dabria pointed her crossbow at the doorway, ready to shoot anything that dared to enter. Pressing her lips together, Charne backed off, footfalls robotic and graceless. She hated when Dabria pointed weapons at her, even if it was really at something behind her. The danger was there regardless.

"Think they'll get through?"

"They would eventually." Dabria tightened her grip around the bow. "But some other idiot will die before that happens."

Of course. It wasn't nearly so fun to watch muttations kill tributes as it was to watch tributes kill each other. Corruption of innocence and all that. Kids killing kids. Once they got a single kill, the mutts would probably back off.

Charne wondered if her parents had even bothered to watch the game. Her father probably had, since he actually cared. Maybe he even cried a bit. But her mother? Charne couldn't know. They'd never been very close. It was one of those things that Charne had ignored, pretending it didn't bother her, and it probably hadn't until she'd been reaped. She'd always assumed that there would be time to build a relationship in some far off and distant future.

Lo and behold, there was no time at all.

Did her friends miss her? Probably. But they wouldn't miss Charne the human being. They would miss Charne the gossip, Charne the fashionista, Charne the beautiful rich bitch who dominated every room she entered. And even if she won, would any of those Charnes make it back to District Zero? Or would her friends keep missing her, even long after she returned? She probably wouldn't win, anyways. Just a waste of energy.

More thumping against the door, harder this time. Louder, too.

"How can you be so sure?" Charne asked.

"Because I'm right."

Charne frowned, pulling a throwing knife from her pack. There was such a thing as being dead right. Still, she remained quiet. No point in arguing, because Dabria would never change her mind.

* * *

**Darian Kesslar, District Seven**

* * *

All around them, just around the next corner, dogs howled and boots clacked against the frozen concrete. Darian clamped his hands tighter around the backpack's straps and pushed his legs to carry him a little further, a little faster. Couldn't die here.

Adara skidded to a stop and waved him into a branching hallway. He followed, though he knew they wouldn't find safety. All of the prison cells were locked tight, and would remain as such until the gamemakers got their body.

They needed to find Emery. Since Ace's death, they hadn't heard any other cannon shots, which meant that Emery was still alive somewhere, but he might not stay that way for much longer. Time was of the essence. They just needed to survive long enough to help him.

Darian knew that he was responsible for what had happened. Sure, Emery had designed the door trap, but Darian had pushed the button without knowing Ace's true intentions, and he was the one who had killed Adara's district partner. She hadn't brought it up with him yet, but he suspected that she resented him for what he'd done, and would have resented him even if he'd been completely justified. Which he hadn't been.

Yeah, he'd fucked up. Maybe fatally.

He was so involved in his own thoughts that he almost ran into Adara where she'd stopped at the end of the hall. Before he could bitch at her, she whipped around and clamped her hand over his mouth.

Running boots sounded in the next hallway, alongside busy snuffling and a low, terrible growl that set his hair on end. Behind them, another pair of muttations - a canine monster and a decidedly inhuman guard - surged down the hallway, apparently having spotted them or followed their scent. Either way, Darian and Adara were stuck. Only one way out, and it involved violence.

Darian pulled out his knife, ignoring the tremor in his hand, and slashed at the closest muttation. His lungs weren't cooperating and his heart was beating so fast that it hurt, but he maintained the razor-thin focus of adrenaline fear and landed a deep cut along one of the guard's forearms. It didn't acknowledge the injury, but retaliated by smashing its baton against the side of Darian's head.

The world went gray and quiet as he stumbled against the wall. Adara screamed at him, but as soon as her words reached his ears, they jumbled together into a nonsensical mess. Blood ran into his eyes, obscuring his vision.

As he blinked away the blood and the black stars swarming at the edges of his vision, one of the mutt hounds clamped onto his leg and started shaking him like a new toy. The fresh onslaught of pain snapped the world back into oversaturated color and overwhelming sound.

Adara was screaming again, but this time it was different, desperate and full of life-ending pain. He spared her a glance, and watched as one of the batons swung down and cracked against her skull, though she kept screaming.

He stabbed the dog that clung to his leg, but the blade glanced off of its skull and didn't seem to do much damage. It shook its head again and a wave of searing red ran up the left side of Darian's body. Sucking in a breath, Darian steeled himself against the fear, then pulled himself toward the creature's snarling mouth, close enough to bury the knife in the side of its neck. With an earsplitting screech, the dog-thing released him and leapt away, swinging its head and splashing blood everywhere.

Rolling away, Darian saw the other two guards and the remaining dog circled around Adara. She was still screaming. He could do nothing as the dog leapt forward and clamped its jaws around her neck, tearing everything out in one brutal snap of its head. She stopped screaming, and the cannon shot followed close behind.

He couldn't save her, but despite his ragged leg and likely concussion, Darian could still save himself. In a twisted way, Adara had probably saved him, because her death would hopefully distract the muttations long enough for him to escape. Better yet, maybe they were only meant to kill one tribute at a time and she'd fulfilled their quota. Either way, he had to take the chance.

Without looking back, he pushed himself to his feet and started running. It didn't matter where, it didn't matter how, so long as he ended up somewhere else. The adrenaline kept him from limping too much, though that would wear off soon, and he had to get as far away as possible before that happened. He'd lost both allies in the span of a day. One was dead, but the other had a chance of recovery, which meant that maybe Darian didn't have to be alone.

He had to find Emery.

* * *

**Polly Brady, District Three**

* * *

Tullus dragged the scalpel across exposed flesh, and the boy on the gurney screamed. Polly tried to cover her ears, but the noise got through anyways. There was no escaping it. Her ally was killing her district partner, and she had neither the courage nor the strength to stop it.

Some kind of human being she was.

Emery let out another ragged gasp, half-muffled by the cord of cloth forced between his teeth and knotted around the back of his head. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, and when he set his gaze upon her, she saw his plea for release. Begging. Dying. How could she just stand by and let it happen? A fellow kid from Three, with whom she'd spend three and a half days prior to the Game?

The blade dug into the crook of Emery's elbow, just deep enough to hit the nerves but not so deep as to sever any major blood vessels, and he let out a low, braying moan.

_Why won't you do something?_

Apparently, Niko was asking himself the same thing.

"Tullus," said the boy from Thirteen, "this has to stop."

The scalpel paused at Emery's wrist. Tullus looked up. "Oh? Are you in charge now?"

"No, but neither are you. We agreed to make decisions together. As a team."

"Maybe, as a team, we should respect each others' space," Tullus said, voice dangerously low, "and let each other do what they need to do."

The atmosphere was making Polly sick. She could feel their resentment and their hatred, maybe because she felt it herself. But the fear that she and Niko shared didn't seem apparent in Tullus at all. Underneath it all, he actually seemed to be enjoying himself.

"I mean, I respected you when we first met, because you seemed smart. Levelheaded. I thought you knew how to lead, and how to win, and that you could make the right choices. Smart choices. But this?" He pointed at the bleeding boy, and his voice climbed a few hysterical notes. "This is wrong. You're enjoying it. Killing him in the slowest way possible, and enjoying every second of it."

Tullus cocked his head to the side and the corners of his mouth twisted with an unsettling frown. "And?"

Niko's mouth hung open as he struggled to find words. "And it's sick! There's a difference between revenge and torture!"

Something hardened in Tullus's expression. He set the scalpel down and gripped the gurney with unnecessary force, then glared back up at Niko, like a wolf guarding downed prey. Without a word, he slipped around the stretcher and charged, eyes dark and fists clenched. Niko backed away and held his hands up in self-defense, but there wasn't much he could do to stop the charging wall of unhinged fury.

"Tullus, no!" Polly ran forward to stop him, but it was too late.

Niko landed a solid punch on Tullus's jaw, but it did little except piss him off. Slamming Niko against the wall, Tullus grappled against the struggling tribute and managed to wrap his hands around the boy's head. Yanking both of his arms in a counter-clockwise motion, he snapped Niko's neck and let the body fall to the floor. He twitched once, then fell still. Broken. Dead.

Polly tried to scream, but nothing came out. Niko's cannon seemed distant, almost as if she'd imagined it.

Tullus turned to Polly, and she noticed a thin splatter of blood running from the corner of his jaw to the top of his ear. Must've been Emery's. "Anything else?"

She ran. Even as Emery screamed for her to stay, she ran all the way to the end of the ward, where the latched doors protected them from whatever muttations lurked outside. In that moment, Polly Brady couldn't care less what was outside, because she knew that no matter what it was, it couldn't be worse than being trapped inside with Tullus Marl. She ran out into the hallway, failing to lock the door behind her, and she did not stop until Emery's screams faded to silence.

* * *

**Ryder Corinthus, District Six**

* * *

It took a long time for the howling to stop.

Ryder had draped one arm over her eyes in a fruitless attempt to get some shuteye. Even after the muttations quieted down, she couldn't force her mind to shut up. Three cannon shots had gone off between the bloodbath and the end of the mutt attack, and all evening she'd been wondering who the unlucky tributes were. Any one of them could have been Margery. She shuddered at the possibility. Strategically speaking, she hoped that all of the deaths belonged to people with high scores, like Medea or Enoch, but as a human being, she couldn't bring herself to wish death upon any of the tributes.

Sometime around midnight, the anthem cut through the icy air and the three faces were revealed. Ace Wilder, Adara Tassin, and Niko Sundita. None of them were Margery, and none were people that she even knew or particularly cared about, though Adara had gotten a good score, which meant one less high-risk to worry about. In any case, Ryder wished them well, wherever they were now.

Tristan sighed through his nose. "Tough day for Twelve."

"How many districts are out now?"

"Just four, I think."

In the moonlight, she thought that Tristan looked a little bedraggled on his cot, and Ryder figured that she couldn't look much better. They'd been trapped in the same cell since the muttation attack hours earlier. Though they'd been nominally safe, they'd lost any opportunity to forage or explore, and their water supply was running dangerously low. Plus, they both had need of a toilet, but were either too embarrassed or too considerate to use the corner.

Stupid gamemakers and their stupid tricks.

Ryder wondered how Magery was doing, and hoped that the girl from Seven was managing well enough on her own. She hadn't reacted to Benjamin's death very well, and wouldn't take well to being trapped alone for an extended period of time. They needed to get to her as soon as the cell doors opened.

"Hey Tristan, are you tired?"

He shook his head, hair rustling against the pillow. "No."

"Well," Ryder said, unable to sit still now that she knew she wouldn't fall asleep, "might as well do something productive until then." She sat up straight in bed and yawned. "Probably should make a plan for tomorrow, huh?"

Tristan grumbled something rude, but agreed nonetheless.

"So, who's left? Zero, the girl from One, Districts Two, Three, Four, us, Darian, and… some other people."

"Evelyn and Brand," Tristan supplied. "Don't forget about them. And Sinora. She's out there, too."

"Right. A lot of them are really strong, and literally all of the career district kids are left, so I think we should just avoid them for as long as possible." Crossing her legs, Ryder leaned back on the bed and pulled her hands over her knee. "Anything you want to contribute?"

Tristan gave her a deadpan stare. "That's it? That's your plan?"

"Well, we'd obviously have to find some food and water in the meantime. And probably a bathroom."

He maintained his glare for another moment or two, before his mouth broke into a grin and his shoulders shuddered with light laughter. He rolled over and clamped his hand over his mouth to keep his volume low. That made Ryder happy, even if he was laughing at her.

It took a few seconds for Tristan to calm down, but when he did, he said, without a trace of sarcasm, "Seems pretty solid."

Ryder smiled and spread her hands wide. "Something to be said for simplicity, huh?"

* * *

**Owen Blackwood, District Four**

* * *

Sometime around two in the morning, all of the cells unlocked with a metallic clang.

Owen awoke with a start and his hand immediately went for his machete. At the other end of the cell Enoch sat on a chair, hands wrapped around a metal pipe that he'd found in one of the maintenance rooms. Enoch rose from his seat and re-locked the cell from the inside, glancing at Owen with trepidation all the while.

Though the weapon offered a small comfort, Owen released it, and as he'd expected, Enoch relaxed by a fraction.

His allies had been treating him differently since his outburst that morning. Although, perhaps it hadn't been an outburst, so much as a reality check. Before the Game began, Enoch and Brand had each possessed their own idea of who Owen Blackwood was, and they'd expected him to act and react to certain situations in a certain way. When he failed to meet those expectations, they got scared, because not only could he pose a danger to them, but they also had no idea what to anticipate. They lost control when they couldn't plan for his behavior.

And so, they were choosing nice words and watching him closely, treating him like a glass sculpture. They though he was weak. Maybe they were right, but Owen chafed at the treatment nonetheless.

"Enoch, don't look at me like that."

In the low light, Enoch's hasty smile gave his face the cast of a porcelain stage mask. "Like what?"

"Cut the crap. I honestly don't care what you think about me, so long as you don't look at me like I'm a trapped dog." He furrowed his brow and the cut on his face stung in protest, but he ignored it. "We're a team. You could at least pretend to trust me."

Enoch's smile faltered and he looked away. "Fair enough."

"It's not that we don't trust you," Brand said, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "We're just worried about you, and we're worried about ourselves, and we all want to last as long as we can. It's nothing against you personally."

Owen stared at her, and some of his irritation dissipated. Brand oftentimes claimed to know nothing about how to deal with people, but she could offer some pretty good insight when she felt like it.

"Yeah," he said, pulling his arms closer around himself. "I know."

"But maybe we've been a little hard on you." Enoch conceded, albeit begrudgingly. More kindly, he added, "It's not like the arena is a normal environment. I think we're all entitled to a freak out, just so long as you get over it." He nodded. "Which is seems you have."

Owen said nothing, but he nodded, too. If felt like he was over it. The precipice of despair had receded to a safe distance, and he would keep it there for as long as he possibly could.

For his sake and for theirs.

* * *

**So we're down to 16 people, and only four of the original nine alliances are still intact, and for all of these lovely tributes, it's only going to go downhill from here. The blog has been updated with the deaths.**

**Anyways, thanks for reading and let me know what you think!**


End file.
